The Cost of Victory
by Fulgance
Summary: After a war that left the wizarding world reeling, no one is left unscathed. Relationships fall apart, façades are broken down, and old enmities are challenged as everyone struggles to cope with their grief. [The first year after the war from various POVs. DH-compliant.]
1. It All Ends Here

The Cost of Victory **is about guilt, love, death, revenge, friendship and forgiveness, but above all it tells the story of so many people dealing – or not dealing – with their grief in so many different ways. It follows as many characters as I was able to include during their first year after the war. Hermione, Harry and Ron are present, but so are Ginny, Percy, Audrey, Lee Jordan, George, Draco Malfoy, Andromeda, Narcissa, Luna, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, Oliver Wood, Angelina Johnson, Theodore Nott, Tracey Davis... If any or all of them spark your interest, read on.**

**Also if there are any Draco fans out there, he's the character who gets the most percentage of chapters in this fic (well, it's either him or Hermione, or both). :P And they're my favorite chapters.  
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**Update 15/01/2015:**** Thank you for reading, and don't hesitate to leave a review if you enjoy the story. I still read them all. This fic meant a lot to me when I wrote it, and still does today. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**It All Ends Here**

**3rd May, 1998 – 09:22 AM**

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><p>He found Ginny in the Great Hall with her family.<p>

She was sitting on the floor next to Fred, hugging her knees tightly, staring straight ahead. There was something of insanity in the way she rocked her body back and forth, not speaking, not looking at anything, seeming not to notice the world around her. Around her, others were in varying states of shock and grief – sisters and brothers hugged each other, mothers cried, fathers stared blankly at the bodies, all laid out in a horrifyingly long row. Two rows, actually – dark robes and masks on one side, the bravest people he had ever met on the other.

Almost immediately after Voldemort had died, when the chaos and confusion were just beginning to die down, Hermione had disappeared. Ron had said, in that awful, empty voice, that she was volunteering to help gather all the dead, draw up a list and contact the families. The Hospital Wing had been destroyed during the battle; Hermione had helped set up a temporary infirmary in one of the classrooms. And since then she had been coming and going from the Great Hall, bringing back a newly-found body, giving a name, and disappearing back to the makeshift infirmary to give Madam Pomfrey a hand. He supposed making herself useful was her way of taking her mind off things, but personally he'd have puked if he'd been the one healing wounds, carrying corpses and dealing with hysterical relatives.

Ron himself he had hardly seen, except standing in silence with George and the rest of his family. They kept together, in a corner of the Great Hall, as far away from the corpses as they could get. Mrs Weasley's tears wouldn't stop; the rest of them just looked shocked. Shocked, dull-eyed, empty. He knew how they felt.

But Ginny wasn't there.

He had looked for her for over an hour. He knew she wasn't in the Great Hall because he'd spent the first eight hours after the battle pacing every square foot of that place, offering forced smiles and quick murmurs of condolences. Then he'd gone through the rest of the Castle. Gryffindor Tower, now a crumbling wreck even the Fat Lady had fled from. The Room of Requirement, which had refused to open for him (had it even survived Crabbe's Fiendfyre?). The Astronomy Tower, oddly intact. The lavatories, the library, the trophy room. The study area, the storage room, the owlery. She had been nowhere. He had come across many people, all who recognised him and nodded at him, but no-one he actually wanted to talk to. Not her.

And then he had found Neville. Neville, whose face was swollen, bruised and battered, and who carried it so easily, almost proudly, as though his world hadn't just come crashing down around him. Neville had smiled understandingly and had said, "If you're looking for her, she's in the Great Hall." And he had shaken his head and said he'd just been. Still, he had followed the advice. And sure enough, she was there.

Everything else went out of focus when he spotted her, red hair tumbling forward into her face, her arms tightly wrapped around her knees. She was safe. Unhurt. Of course he knew that, but he hadn't seen her since – _since_. There had been that growing feeling of uneasiness growing in him the longer his search went on.

She hadn't been in the Great Hall the entire time, he thought as he headed for her. She hadn't been the last time he'd been here, an hour ago. Where had she gone? Why was she back?

He stopped ten feet before he reached her, suddenly unsure. What was he supposed to do? To say?

"Finally," she said, her voice so quiet he wasn't sure he had heard right.

He stepped forward and sat down next to her. "Finally?"

"I've been waiting."

"I've been looking."

She sighed, still not looking at him. "I – there was something I had to do."

He nodded, then realised she wouldn't see. "Right." He wasn't going to ask.

She answered anyway. "The Forbidden Forest. With Hagrid. We found Fang."

He remembered the way the dog had run away at the beginning of the battle. "Oh."

"He's safe."

"I'm glad," he said truthfully. "Ginny –"

She suddenly raised her head at the mention of her name, effectively cutting him off. Her eyes pierced through him as surely as daggers, and he found himself at a lack for words.

An unruly strand of hair fell into her eyes; she crossly pushed it back behind her ear. "Look, Harry –"

"I'm sorry," he said at the same time. "Fred –"

"Knew what he was doing," Ginny said fiercely.

Her eyes were shining with tears, but she refused to let them fall.

"If it weren't for me –"

"We'd all be dead by now."

"That's not –"

"It _is_ true, Harry." Ginny was silent for a moment. "They're calling you the Saviour of Hogwarts," she offered.

"Oh, great," he said before he could stop himself, and Ginny laughed.

It was the most half-hearted laugh he had ever heard, but it was still a laugh.

"I missed you," she said when she stopped.

"I'm sorry."

"I never thought you were dead," she went on thoughtfully. "But it was hard –"

"I looked at the Map every night," he blurted.

She looked at him quizzically.

"The Marauder's Map... Lupin gave it to me. It's a map of Hogwarts, and it shows everyone inside the castle. I found your name on it... And I stared at it. For hours. It was just... comforting, to know you were safe. Alive."

She snorted. "So safe."

"But you _were_," he insisted. "Snape –"

"And the Carrows."

He faltered. "It's over now," was all he could find to say.

"Yeah," Ginny said. "It's over." She looked around. "Funny, isn't it? It feels like our entire lives have revolved around this place."

"Voldemort felt the same way."

She froze, but her voice was controlled when she spoke. "And now... It all ends, just where it all started. Where I met you – really met you." She smiled softly. "Remember my first year?"

"How could I forget?"

"You have a lot of explaining to do," she said. "About everything. What happened then and what happened this year."

"I know."

Silence.

"You know," Ginny said after a moment, "I thought you had died. When Voldemort said so."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't know what I'd have done if you'd died," she said quietly, looking down at her hands again.

And this was the moment. This was when he was supposed to take her hands in his, open his heart to her, and swear he'd never leave her or lie to her again.

But that would be a lie as well, wouldn't it?

Instead he said, "You'd have survived. I know you would have."

There was an awkward, heavy silence, and he wondered if the moment had passed. He tried anyway.

"I love you."

He saw her stiffen, and then her brown eyes met his, and the warmth they radiated surprised him.

"I know," she said. "I love you, too."

Emboldened by her words, he moved over a little so he was closer to her and wrapped his arms around her. "I love you," he repeated, realising, for the first time, just how true that sentence was.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and then immediately pulled back, crinkling her nose. "You smell... bad."

"Must be the blood and dirt."

"Must be," she agreed, leaning against him again. "And you've got a leaf in your hair." She closed her eyes and snuggled closer up to him. "Harry..."

"Yes?"

"After this..."

He caught on, but maybe that was only because he had been wondering the exact same thing. "Yes."

There was no real meaning to the word, but he knew she understood. She was going to say something when, suddenly:

"Harry! Harry, I've been looking all over for you!" Hermione cried almost breathlessly. "It's like you go out of your way to avoid me – Harry, Kingsley wants to speak to you. And Professor McGonagall. And Dumbledore's portrait has asked as well. And there are reporters from –"

"Reporters?" he repeated. "_Reporters_?"

Hermione shrugged him off impatiently. "Well, obviously I told them it'd have to wait until you'd seen Kingsley –"

"You're right, because Kingsley is my top priority right now," he snapped, and she shrank back.

"Oh," she said, her voice suddenly small. Then she seemed to collect herself. "Kingsley has put himself in charge of the – post-battle events. And he needs to hear what happened, from your lips."

"I'm busy," he said, looking down at Ginny, but Ginny pushed away from him and stood up.

"Hermione's right," she said quietly. "There are more important things."

The way she said the words stung. _Nothing is more important to me than you_, he wanted to say, but he couldn't lie. And she looked at him and saw it in his eyes.

"It's all right," she lied. "I understand."

"Harry," Hermione said impatiently, "Please. It's important. I don't like to keep them busy. I have things to do."

"Fine," he snapped, then glanced back at Ginny. "Later, okay?"

"As always."

And the worse was, there was no bitterness to her tone as she said the words.

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><p>"I'm sorry," Hermione said as soon as they were out of the Great Hall. "I didn't handle that well."<p>

"No, you didn't," he agreed.

"I have a lot on my mind," she offered. "We all do. And don't be like that about Kingsley; he's doing the best he can. He's supervising the entire thing and hasn't taken a moment to breathe since the – the battle." She grasped his wrist and firmly turned him over to a set of staircases. "Over here, it's quicker."

"But –" he protested, and she cut him off.

"The corridor leading to the – the temporary infirmary collapsed a few minutes ago," she told him. "We were expecting it; it had been badly damaged. No-one was hurt. We managed to levitate the falling debris so they came down slowly enough. But now we have to take the long way around."

Her tone was so calm, so flat as she delivered the news that Harry winced. He looked at her more carefully. She seemed tired, her hair frazzled and unkempt, her expression strained, her face dusty and grimy; but her movements were brisk and there was a fire behind her eyes he had never seen in her.

He tore his eyes from her and instead looked around at his surroundings. The colourful portraits that had once livened up these very same walls now seemed as dull as the layer of grey dust that covered everything. Many were as deserted as the halls they decorated, portraying empty feast tables, empty deserts, empty ballrooms, empty chairs and empty forests. A mermaid turned her back to them and cried into her hands. A sombre-looking nobleman bowed low as Harry passed, and a group of young children stopped talking and fled from their painting as soon as they saw him.

"They were very scared," Hermione said. "Try to understand them."

"I don't blame them."

She gestured to one of the empty paintings. It had probably been a portrait before its person deserted it. When Harry looked closer at it, he saw the fine, jagged rip that slashed the canvas into two, right down the middle. A shiver of horror ran up his spine, and he looked at the next empty frame. A similar cut had left a piece of the canvas sagging down. A third painting could only be described using the word "shredded."

The full horror of what Voldemort had come so close to doing finally crashed down around him.

"Godric Gryffindor," he breathed, and then, "Are they – dead?"

"Kingsley has contacted two or three experts," she said blandly. "We're going to see if the canvas can be restored. Most of them fled before it happened, of course; they'll be hiding in family homes or history books. It will take a while for them to come back, but we think they might, eventually." She bit her lip. "The Fat Lady has already refused."

He remembered the time Sirius had threatened her portrait and felt a burst of shame for his godfather. "Could she – change her mind?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, her eyes flicking down to look at the once-red carpet they were trudging across, kicking up clouds of dust with every step. "I hope so. Kingsley seems... doubtful."

"Kingsley." The name rested oddly on his tongue. "Why is he in the infirmary?"

"Because we need as many people as we can get," she replied. "And he's very good with the more hysterical victims."

"Were there many – injured?"

She glanced over at him, a startled little half-glance he had never thought to receive from her. "You won't see too many," she said carefully. "The majority have already been transferred to St Mungo's for emergency treatment. We're still bringing in a few, but less and less with each passing minute. There are only eleven in the infirmary right now. So far, we have a count of fifty-one victims – our side, I mean, Hogwarts – well, you know. We've sent off seventeen people to St Mungo's; five were in a critical state. Most of them are now stable." She rattled off the information with the cool ease of someone who had been through this a dozen times, and Harry's stomach lurched at the thought of facing so many anxious relatives and worried faces.

"Hermione..." _You're so much stronger than any of us_, he wanted to say. "How are you?"

In other circumstances, the question would have been odd.

"I'm fine," she said, again giving him that odd little side-glance. "And you?"

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><p>"Fine," he repeated, and looked straight ahead again to avoid meeting her gaze.<p>

The infirmary was not at all what he had been expecting. It looked empty in a war-raided way. The floors and walls were impeccable compared to the horror of the Great Hall, but somehow, it only made the room look sterile. There was a faint smell of hospital that Harry couldn't quite pinpoint – that aggressively clean smell that clings to everything in Muggle hospitals –, tinted with the less unpleasant smells of blood and sweat. A dozen beds, obtained Merlin knew where, lined the walls, and Madam Pomfrey sat on the edge of one of them, worriedly laying her hand across a patient's forehead. She looked up as they entered, and an expression of relief eased a few lines off her face.

"Hermione," she said, genuine warmth leaking into her tone. "I think Parvati is developing a fever."

Hermione looked down at their classmate, who was breathing somewhat laboriously, her eyes half-closed and her dark hair fanned out across the starch white pillow. Parvati's hand suddenly snaked out across the sheet to wrap itself around Harry's wrist in an iron grip. He jumped and almost backed away, but Parvati's eyes had opened and she was looking at Hermione, not him.

"Have we had any news... about Padma?" she asked, her voice a lot weaker than Harry had ever heard it.

Hermione betrayed herself, glancing at Madam Pomfrey. A shadow fell across the nurse's expression. Her eyes told the entire story, and Harry shivered. Padma hadn't made it. _Fifty-two._

"No news," Hermione lied easily. "They're very busy at St Mungo's; we haven't had an update in some time. Don't worry."

"Perhaps we should send you there, too," Madam Pomfrey said warmly. "You don't seem to be getting better. The sooner you're transferred, the better."

"But – " Hermione said, and Madam Pomfrey cut her off with a look. Hermione turned her head to the side and breathed, to inform Harry, "They're not accepting any more entrances... they've got more than they can handle already, they said we should send only real emergencies."

"I'm fine," Parvati said weakly. "My side still hurts, is all. It's annoying, but it's not going to kill me." Her eyes flicked to Harry for the first time since she had opened them. "Harry... You did it." She was smiling. "You won."

There was such undisguised affection, such fierce pride in her feverish eyes that Harry reached out, took her free hand in his and, squeezing it, said, "_We_ won."

Her other hand slipped down from his wrist to his palm. It was too warm, fever-warm. Then it left his hand, instead reaching down to lay across the heavy bandage on her side. She closed her eyes again.

"Greyback," Madam Pomfrey said in a soft voice, nodding at Parvati. "He wasn't – transformed, but I can't seem to get the wounds to close using the regular methods. When I had to deal wi – when Remus was a student, I always had the right products in the Hospital Wing, but..." She bit her lip.

Harry looked down at the slight hand, still in his, and remembered. _Greyback_. "And Lavender?"

"She's fine," Hermione said, "Greyback didn't touch her. She was only Stunned, and she's been by Parvati's side ever since the battle ended."

"She actually fell asleep a few minutes ago," Madam Pomfrey said. "I convinced her to let me give her a Sleeping Draught. She was exhausted."

Harry looked at Lavender's sleeping form, then back at Parvati's glossy black hair. Both of them were so unlike his memories of them at Hogwarts that he felt a certain fondness for them, an oddly protective feeling.

Then, shattering the portrait, Kingsley rose from the bedside of a quietly sobbing woman and made his way across the room to him.

"Mr Potter," he said, then, breaking into a genuine smile, "Harry."

The deep warmth of his voice washed over Harry in a wave of familiarity and caring, promising the same open-hearted honesty it always did. He felt his annoyance at the man dissolve at the sound of his voice.

"Kingsley," he acknowledged. "The newspapers?"

"Can wait," Kingsley said, a slight frown forming a crease between his eyebrows. "I've had them told that you have other priorities."

"Thank you."

"I'll need to be made aware of what happened, Harry Potter," Kingsley said clearly. "Is Voldemort gone for good?"

"Yes."

"You can say this with absolute certainty?"

"As I'm sure Hermione could have told you," Harry said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

"How did you do it?"

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione. "Dumbledore entrusted me with the knowledge of – of Voldemort's weakness," he said slowly. "And I don't think I can give it to you."

Kingsley seemed unsettled. "I can assure you Dumbledore had the most complete trust in my abilities to keep a secret."

"It doesn't have anything to do with that," Harry said. "I wouldn't tell anyone. It isn't something that should be repeated. In fact, I hope no-one ever hears of it again."

"That won't reassure anyone," Kingsley murmured, more to himself than to Harry, Harry could tell. "The wizarding world will want to know for certain that the war is won forever."

"Then they'll just have to take my word for it, for once," Harry said bitterly. "People will believe what they want to believe, and they certainly want to believe that Voldemort is gone."

"Indeed," Kingsley agreed, "But people also tend to have a hard time believing the truth."

"You believe me, don't you?"

He had managed to destabilise Kingsley.

"Dumbledore trusted you, and I trust Dumbledore's judgement," Kingsley said finally.

"You do, don't you," Harry said, thinking of Snape. "And you're taking charge here, aren't you?"

"I intend to," Kingsley said bluntly.

"Then this time, for once, the Ministry will be backing my word."

"As long as Harry Potter backs the Ministry," Kingsley said, holding his gaze.

The offer was clear, and Harry almost felt disgusted as he nodded and said, "Of course."

Kingsley must have noticed, because he said, "I don't like forced alliances any more than you do, Harry. But like it or not, you cannot avoid them anymore. You cannot afford to have no opinion, no allies. You are a political figure now; even more so than you used to be. You will be able to exert a heavy amount of influence on most wizards. I would be a fool not to turn that to my advantage. I dislike having to do it this way, but I would much rather have you as a reluctant ally than as an enemy. If I hadn't stepped up so quickly, someone else would have seized you."

"I'm not an object," Harry said coolly, "I can take care of myself."

Kingsley held his gaze without flinching, and instead offered him a tired but sincere smile. "We are allies, Harry, but under different circumstances, we might have been friends."

"Yes," Harry said, looking down at Parvati's hand in his. "If that's all –"

"If only it were," Kingsley said, sounding exhausted. "But the rest can wait. Are you planning on going anywhere?"

"No," Harry said, just as Hermione said:

"Shell Cottage. You need to sleep," she added hurriedly, seeing Harry's look. "I thought we would leave the Weasleys at the Burrow, to..." Her voice broke and she visibly fought back tears for a moment. "To rest," she said finally. "Bill and Fleur will be with them. They've already agreed."

"I want to stay here," Harry protested.

Hermione shook her head sadly. "By tonight, there'll be no-one left here. They're all going home, Harry, to reflect and – to rest," she said again. "The injured will be transferred to surrounding hospitals; we'll try to get Parvati to St Mungo's if we can. You need to rest, Harry. So do I."

He knew she would never have admitted the last if she knew it wasn't true, and he nodded.

"Will you be staying there?" Kingsley asked.

"Not for long," Harry said. "I want to be involved in the plans for the rebuilding of Hogwarts."

"Involved?" Kingsley repeated. "Harry, you'll be involved in many things in the weeks to come –"

"Directly involved," he clarified. "I want to be present at every meeting there may be about it, to be contacted when it starts, and to have a role in it."

Kingsley nodded thoughtfully. "For now, nothing has been organised. I don't even know if the castle _can _be restored. There seems to have been a lot of damage, and I don't know where we could gather a large enough team –"

"But that's it," Hermione broke in, heedlessly interrupting Kingsley, "that's why you'll put Harry in charge. He could do it. Think how many people who would volunteer like him to restore Hogwarts. It could go into the hundreds if we appeal to everyone who ever attended Hogwarts! Every wizarding family has some sort of attachment to the school. Those who don't would want to help the Saviour anyway."

"The _what_ now?" Harry said, unable to keep the distaste out of his voice.

"The Saviour, Harry, the Saviour of Hogwarts, the Saviour of the Wizarding World! That's you. The Prophet coined it three hours ago, and I rather think it'll stick." She turned back to Kingsley. "It would give spirit back to the people. It would be a beginning of unity, a message that reads: Together, we can do anything. Don't you see? Hogwarts means so much to us. Everyone feels the same way. This is the perfect way to start."

Kingsley stared at Hermione for a long time, his dark eyes unreadable. His next words sent a chill running up Harry's spine.

"Have you ever thought about pursuing a career at the Ministry?" he asked Hermione, his words so like Scrimgeour's maybe a year previously. "I'm sold. Miss Granger, you're in charge of the rebuilding of Hogwarts. Harry will be with you always, as he sees fit, I'm sure. Take the task seriously, because as you've made clear enough, it is of the utmost importance. Don't fail me, Hermione."

"Thank you," Hermione said, that strange new fire in her eyes flaring determinedly.

Suddenly, Harry knew she wouldn't be getting any sleep that night.

"I'll leave you to your preparations for tonight," Kingsley said. "Till soon enough, both of you."

"Good-bye," Harry said, and Kingsley oddly bowed his head a fraction before leaving the room.

His stride was fast and anxious and not in the least dignified. Harry watched him go.

"He'll make an excellent Minister, won't he?"

"Mm," Hermione said thoughtfully.

He knew she was already thinking about the rebuilding. "If you want to, we can start today," he said. "We can walk around the castle and write down everything that needs to be done. Kingsley didn't look too clear about the amount of damage dealt."

Hermione almost jumped to her feet, then froze. "No. You shouldn't exert yourself too much. Moving around helps me," she admitted. "I feel useful. But you need to rest."

"I want to," he said adamantly. Then: "I have to find Ginny."

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><p>Ginny was in the Great Hall with her family, and Harry came back to Hermione without her.<p>

The recording of everything that wasn't quite right at Hogwarts was a long, difficult and horrifying task. Blood still stained some parts of the floor and walls and neither Harry nor Hermione had the courage to Scourgify it. Other places were just painful to look at – here Fred had fallen, here Greyback had attacked Lavender. And worse still, some damage was so important it seemed to dismay even Hermione. This wall had been completely destroyed, this painting would probably have to be taken down, this corridor had collapsed. This tree, when they reached the Forbidden Forest. This window, this boat, this shed. Mess and rubble and destruction and death surrounded them. Nothing had been spared.

Harry's heart leapt when they reached the Quidditch pitch, after over seven hours of scouring the Castle. The fresh green grass, clean bleachers and untouched hoops seemed to contrast with the rest of the grounds. He traced a wooden bleacher almost lovingly, feeling the smooth unsplintered wood beneath his hand.

"They didn't get here," he said quietly.

"A sanctuary," Hermione said. "During the battle, some dragged nine injured out of the fighting and brought them here. They all survived; six of them are in St Mungo's, the other three have gone home. The Death Eaters never thought to look here."

"Someone?"

Hermione shrugged. "It's just a story I've heard. I don't know who exactly."

How many people would have had the idea of using the Quidditch pitch as a _sanctuary_? Harry was one of them. Ginny, possibly another, and Ron. Oliver Wood, he thought, remembering his first Captain's passion for the sport. Cho.

"It's just a story, right now," Hermione said softly, "but in the Muggle world there are hero stories from the world wars."

"Yes," Harry said, thinking of Snape again. "Hermione, Snape was –"

"Yes. I thought I heard something about that," she said quietly, reaching up to push his shoulder down, effectively making him sit down in the grass.

She sat next to him, and he realised for the first time that it was a beautiful day, with a blue sky and a brilliant sun that warmed his face as he tilted it up to the sky.

"You said something to Voldemort – that Snape was ours, that he loved your mother."

He smiled at the way she had changed his "Dumbledore's" to "ours." Snape was no longer around to despise and protect him, but he would see that his memory lived on. He would glorify the man as a martyr, a loyal double agent, Dumbledore's man to the end. He would be buried with honour. Any stain that might darken the man's past would be bleached off by Harry himself, until his portrait was that of a hero. It was the least he could do for him.

"He'll be buried in Godric's Hollow, next to my parents," he said decisively. "Next to my mother."

"Tell me about him," Hermione requested gently.

And he did, and the story was so long and intertwined with so many others that it naturally led to an explanation for what had happened in – and after – the Forbidden Forest, so that he was still talking when the sun's rays turned orange and became cooler, and when the sun started to lower itself down to the horizon. Hermione listened patiently, asking a few questions when she couldn't hold them back.

"They were childhood friends?"

"He _was_ a Death Eater?"

"You let him _kill_ you? Harry, that's impossible..."

"Narcissa _Malfoy_ saved your life?"

"I really believed you were dead..."

"I'm sorry," he said to the last, looking out to the horizon but still reaching out to cover her hand with his.

"I was so scared," she said quietly. Then: "Do you realise what Ginny must have gone through this past year? You had the Marauder's Map. She was lucky to have Luna and Neville, who really believe in you, or she might have given up and thought you had died."

"I know."

"You owe her an explanation."

"I owe her a lot of things," he said, as pink started streaking across the sky. Pink as Ginny's eyes earlier. Pink as the jumper that her mother had given her, the one that clashed so beautifully with her hair. Pink as the blush that permanently occupied her cheeks in Harry's presence when she was younger. "I owe her so much."

Hermione seemed satisfied by that, and she let the subject drop. They were silent as they watched the sun set. Orange, pink and violet melted into dark blue, then black, and then Hermione spotted the first star.

They laughed in unison, and half their worries seemed to fade away. The sky was exactly the same as it had always been. The stars shone as bright as they had ever had. The world went on around them. Suddenly, Dumbledore's words from long ago came back to him, on Fawkes' burning day. _Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes._

Yesterday had been the wizarding world's burning day.

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><p><strong> So. First chapter posted (one of the longest, expect some hugely varying lengths, though at least they're all over 1k). I'm thrilled, to be honest. What did you think of the interaction between Kingsley and Harry? I wanted to have them be warmer with each other, but they don't know each other that well, and Kingsley is well on his way to becoming Minister for Magic – there has to be some formality in there.<strong>

** Con crit appreciated. Any type of review appreciated. If you notice typos please notify me so I can fix them.**

**Thank you very much for reading. **

****PS: Whoever is wondering why the main characters in this story are Hermione and Draco... wait and see. ;)**  
><strong>


	2. We've Won

**Two chapters today, because this one here isn't very long. Next one up soon.**

_Disclaimer:_** JK Rowling wrote **Harry Potter**.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

**We've Won**

**5th May, 1998**

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><p>When he was younger, he hated visiting his parents. He had hated hospitals with a passion ever since he could remember, but St Mungo's was the worst. The embodiment of everything that was terrible in a hospital. The floors were clean, the smiles were forced, and the people were too busy to bother with you. When he was six, he got lost here, and he had had to ask three people before someone – not even an employee, but an elderly woman visiting a sick nephew – took his hand and brought him back to the Janus Thickey Ward. Ever since, he had been scared of St Mungo's. It wasn't a very Gryffindor feeling, and he had kept it from his grandmother.<p>

Growing up, the forced visits – monthly at the least, sometimes weekly; later, only during school holidays – had become more and more bearable. Maybe it was because his parents had started to come back. They would never be truly sane, he knew it (although he had clung to the hope for years), but they had made progress. His mother no longer spent most of her time hugging her knees and crying. His father had stopped suddenly putting his hands on his ears, blocking out silent screams and looking off into emptiness. Alice had learned to smile; she was very pretty when she smiled. Once, he heard her laugh. She started eating the sweets his grandmother made him bring to them, and she liked them. She always gave him back the wrappers, and once he thought she might have said "Thank you" (although his grandmother heard nothing of the sort). Both of them would smile when they saw him come in, and he could sometimes hug his father good-bye.

So now St Mungo's wasn't his least favourite place in the world. It almost felt good to be back in the polished halls which held so many memories, and in which he hadn't set foot in over a year. The desk clerk had given him a little wave when she saw him come in, and the salesman at the visitors' shop had struck up a conversation when he bought a box of chocolate there. His father loved chocolate, and the shiny gold wrapping paper would fascinate his mother.

He caught a glimpse of a swinging blond ponytail and a hurried step that was only too familiar. Aminta nodded her recognition when he caught up with her, and he smiled back. The nurse slowed down, along with the trolley she was pushing ahead of her, and stopped to talk to him.

"It's been a long time since I last saw you," she said. "They've missed you."

Aminta was the only one who really understood his link with them, the only one who had never pitied him.

"I couldn't come last year," he said, looking at the door behind her. "I've missed them, too."

"They'll be happy to see you," she said warmly, then checked her watch. "I wish I could stay, but... since the battle, we have had so many patients and I feel like I'm always late for something or other. We'll catch up soon, okay?"

"Of course."

She started pushing the trolley forward again, a little faster this time.

"I haven't told them yet, you know," the nurse called over her shoulder. "I thought you would want to be the first to tell them."

"Thanks," he called back.

"You'll have to tell _me_ all about it, too, of course," she said, before disappearing around the corner of the hallway, along with the trolley she was pushing. "Don't you think you'll get out of it, Neville!"

He grinned, but the smile soon faded as he stared at the door. Behind that door were the parents he hadn't seen in over a year. But they weren't parents who had thought and worried about him for a year. They weren't parents who would leap up and cry and take him in their arms when they saw him. Most of the time, they were parents who didn't even know they had a son.

He knocked on the door, which was kept locked shut like a prison's.

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><p>His parents were painting when he came in. They had paintbrushes in their hands and tubes of paint beside them and a canvas before them, but the canvas was blank and instead they were using the brushes to flick paint at each other, at the walls, or onto their sheets. His father had an artistic splatter of blue drops across his nose, and his mother was laughing. The nurse who was keeping an eye on them didn't seem to mind; she was smiling as she watched them, a tender, indulgent smile. Elisia was an insightful woman whom Neville admired very much.<p>

"Sit down," she told him, not looking away from Alice, who was squeezing yellow paint out onto her paintbrush. "Just look at them – aren't they beautiful?"

He had to admit they were. His mother had drawn closer to her husband, who was standing quite still, and was lightly caressing his face with the paintbrush, weaving patterns of yellow across his cheeks. She dipped the paintbrush in red and started again, creating bright flames; then blue, then green around his eyes.

"When did they learn to paint?" he asked Elisia.

"They didn't," she said, still watching Alice's slow, careful movements. "I just thought it might be an interesting idea. They seem to be having fun."

His mother turned around and smiled that bemused but effortless smile, the one it had taken years to coax out of her. The one she now bestowed upon almost everyone she met, like she was constantly happy.

_Insanity is one of the body's defense mechanisms_, a Healer had once told a much younger Neville. His parents had retreated into their minds first to avoid the pain, and later so they would never have to face the terrible memories. And that was why no amount of coaxing could get them back. Neville liked that explanation better than others. He had once heard someone say there was no-one "in there" anymore and that it was a shame, _such a shame_ to have lost them. Lost them, as though they had died. Most people – family friends and such – talked about them like they were dead. _Poor boy, poor orphan_, they said, meaning him, and the one time he had spoken up to say that he was not an orphan, they had shaken their heads sadly and had said _such a shame_ again.

Neville had never thought that the sometimes vacant look in his mother's eyes meant there was no-one "in there." And he had always clung on to the fierce, impossible hope that enough good news, enough good memories would be able to erase the fear of the bad and bring them back. Every good thing that happened, he told them, going into great detail. He described every beautiful thing he could think of, from butterfly wings to rainbows to Ginny's hair. His mother liked stories, so he read beautiful passages from books, too; and sometimes he brought children's picture books, so she could turn the pages and stare at the illustrations. She had liked his copy of Beedle the Bard very much.

He should have guessed she would like painting.

They seemed to have finished now; both of them sat down on the bed and looked at Elisia and him, still smiling. His father was very colourful, which might have made anyone else look foolish. But the grin that revealed his teeth and crinkled the corners of his eyes was the only thing that really mattered. Neville suddenly wanted to tell them, tell them everything.

"I can give you a little privacy," Elisia said, standing up. "Just don't let them eat the paint, and knock when you're finished."

He flashed her a grateful smile.

"Good-bye," Alice said, a few beats after Elisia had closed the door, and he looked at her in shock. His parents rarely chose to speak, even though he knew they _could_.

"Hello, mum," he said after a moment. "Hello, dad."

His parents listened to him; their eyes were on him and focused.

"I'm sorry I haven't come here in a while," he went on. "This year has been very busy. But I have some news for you today – good news. Do you want to hear?"

"Yes," his mother said, making him start and stare again.

How much had he missed, in the year he had been absent? How vocal had his mother become, how calm had they both become, how much had they changed? The laughing woman with a paintbrush in hand would never have been so controlled and yet carefree just a year ago.

He shrugged it off, struggled to gather his wits again, and continued in a bright voice. He skimmed over undesirable details and talked about bravery and friends. About Ginny and Luna. About Hermione and Ron. About Harry, who had finally _done it_. Who had killed _him_.

"He's dead," he said. "Dead and gone, and I promise you, he'll never come back. No-one will ever hurt us again."

He handed the chocolate over to his father and watched Alice avidly unwrap the golden paper. His parents had been excellent Aurors. He felt sure that, deep down, they understood. And cared.

"We did it," he said. "We won, mum! Dad, I – _we_ accomplished what you wanted to do. We've finally done it. He's gone for good. We've won."

His mother smiled down at the paper in her hands, then at the smile on his face. She gave him the ball of tightly-rolled paper, said "Thank you," and drew him into a hug.

His parents had been excellent Aurors, and he would do them proud.

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><p><strong> Believe it or not, this was the last chapter I wrote. The story was <span>finished<span> when I came back and added this in. It wasn't that I didn't want to write it or only got the idea then. It was that this was a hard chapter to write, and I'm still not sure if I pulled it off correctly. I'd like to have your opinion. **

** I love all the Harry Potter characters (with the possible exception of Crabbe), but Neville is exceptionally fantastic. Who agrees?**


	3. The Play Is Over

** _This_ used to be the first chapter. Well, it's been reworked and some stuff has been added, but I posted this, a long time ago, as the first chapter of this fic.**

** I hope the tragic aspect of this chapter won't be too jarring. It all comes from the person's perspective. This is someone who has suffered immensely. Additionally, it's set only a week after the end of the war. That means everyone is still very much in mourning. **

** Westlife's **Why Did You Leave Me** strikes me as a very evocative song; I listened to it after writing this chapter, but still. You should give it a try. It's beautiful.**

_Disclaimer:_** Everything is JK Rowling's.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3 <strong>

**The Play Is Over**

**10th May, 1998**

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><p>It was too soon. The memories were still fresh in everyone's mind. It hurt to even be standing here, and yet so many people had come – everyone who had lost someone was here. There had to be hundreds of wizards present, but he doubted they were here to witness the award-giving. Kingsley himself rushed through the introduction, knowing that there was something more important to get to, quickly. But he still slowed down when it was time to hand out the first reward.<p>

"Miss Luna Lovegood," he read out. "For her brave participation in three battles against Death Eaters and on one occasion, Voldemort himself, and for having led Dumbledore's Army: the Civil Actions Medal."

Luna glanced at him, let go of his hand, and lightly made her way through the crowd and up the steps to the stage set up in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds. She shook Kingsley's hand and stood still as he symbolically placed the medal around her neck. There was a brief applause, and then Luna was back, next to him, holding his hand again. Or maybe he was holding hers, clinging to her like he couldn't live without her.

He hated feeling like this.

"Mr Neville Longbottom," Kingsley said next. "For having been a loyal and steadfast friend as well as a leader of Dumbledore's Army, and for the bravery displayed before Voldemort himself – the Civil Actions Medal."

Neville's grandmother was beaming as her grandson made his way up the steps, and she clapped louder than anyone else when Kingsley hung the medal around his neck. And then it was Ginny's turn, and he almost felt like smiling as Kingsley praised his sister for being a troublemaker when the Carrows ruled the school. On the stage, it was obvious that Hermione was struggling to keep her tears in check as, in turn, Aberforth Dumbledore ("resistance... resourcefulness... aid"), all the Hogwarts professors ("… for leading the school with unwavering loyalty, from darkness into light"), and the remaining members of the Order received the same award.

Then Kingsley cleared his throat, as though uncomfortable with what he had to say next. He guessed what was coming and winced, his hand suddenly clenching around Luna's.

"Not all bravery is recognised in time," Kingsley said. "Some of the bravest people I knew sacrificed their lives for the wizarding world. Everyone here can claim a lost brother, mother, cousin or friend. And these people – ordinary people – were the very definition of bravery.

"To Nymphadora and Remus Lupin," he began, "for being members of the Order of the Phoenix and for their bravery in every battle they fought – The Ministerial Medal of Honour." He looked out at the crowd, meeting everyone's eyes with his open, honest gaze. "Andromeda Tonks will receive the awards for them."

Andromeda headed forward, her shoulders bowed by sorrow but her eye fierce, her head proudly held up as she took the award from Kingsley.

"To Professor Albus Dumbledore, already Order of Merlin, First Class. For his countless services to the wizarding world, for being a member of the Order of the Phoenix and for greatly contributing to the eventual defeat of Voldemort – the Ministerial Medal of Honour. Minerva McGonagall will receive the award for him. It will remain in the castle of Hogwarts, along with his portrait."

"To Mr Alastor Moody," he said, "Also known as 'Mad-Eye.' For being an excellent Auror for years, and for finally giving his life to preserve Harry Potter's – the Order of Merlin, Third Class."

In the crowd, Fleur gave a sob and clung to Bill. Hermione herself could feel the lump rise in her throat.

"To Mr Fred Weasley," Kingsley said then. "For his loyalty to Harry Potter and for his never-ending laughter and courage in the face of danger and until his death – the Civil Actions Medal. George Weasley will receive the award for him."

George was not stepping forward. He had frozen at the naming of _his_ name. _And until his death..._

Luna gave him a little push forward, and the crowd imitated her until he was face-to-face with Kingsley. He didn't burst down into tears, and he didn't scream or run away. He accepted the medal in silence, and went down the steps in silence, and detached himself from the crowd in silence, and made his way back to Luna in silence.

"To Mr Regulus Black –" Hermione started, and glanced out of the corner of her eye at Harry – "For fighting Voldemort in his own way, and because accepting one's mistakes and righting a wrong are two of the hardest things to do – the Ministerial Medal of Honour. And to his brother Mr Sirius Black –" here Hermione saw people turn to each other and murmur their confusion – "for being a loyal friend, for giving his life at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries and to right the Ministry's own wrongs – the Ministerial Medal of Honour. Andromeda Tonks and Harry Potter will receive the awards for them."

Harry pulled his hand out of Hermione's and stepped forward to receive Sirius' award. Kingsley leaned forward an inch and said something, but no one heard what.

"To Professor Severus Snape," Kingsley went on as the Ministry official behind him handed him the next award. "For being the bravest of spies during eighteen years, and for being a member of the Order of the Phoenix – the Order of Merlin, Third Class." He paused. "The award will remain here at the castle in the Headmaster's office."

"And lastly, to Miss Hermione Granger, Mr Ron Weasley and Mr Harry Potter, for their bravery despite their age, for their repeated actions against Voldemort, for risking everything to destroy him and for freeing the wizarding world of his evil for good – the Order of Merlin, First Class for each of them."

So that was the award giving. But not a single person who had been rewarded had wanted it, and the others could have cared less. George himself had hardly listened during the speeches, until he heard his own name being called and Luna had pushed him toward the stage. Now, hearing the memorial mentioned, he snapped to attention.

"… and it is with great honour and much greater sadness that I present to you this monument to the deceased," Kingsley was saying. "They fought bravely; they fought, not for their lives, but for yours, and for freedom; they fought when hope surged through them and they fought when all seemed lost, and not once did they hesitate, not once did any of them think to save themselves. They were our friends, our family, our neighbours – but above all, they were heroes. As such they will be remembered."

It was a beautiful, honest speech, with just the right amount of flowery phrasing. It was made even more beautiful and honest by Kingsley's deep voice, which was the type everyone always associated with honesty. If it had been under any other circumstances, the Interim Minister would have been applauded. But there, and then, no one had really listened. The words had floated into one ear and left by the other, if they had been heard at all. No one could afford to pay attention to anything but their own grief. There were tears, there were flowers, there were black cloaks – everywhere, nothing but black. Except Luna, who, dressed in blindingly white robes, was a refreshing ray of sunlight in this sea of darkness. She was also attracting offended glances from all around, but she didn't seem to notice. She was standing next to him, her head high, looking at Kingsley. Maybe _she_ had listened.

And maybe Harry had, too. Harry, standing straight and tall next to "the monument," a sort of obelisk carved with the names of all the _deceased_ (why did the word sound so cold?). His face emotionless. And George knew it wasn't because that he didn't feel, it was that he couldn't afford to show it. Every so often his glance would leave Kingsley and go to them, to his friends. His family. It was impossible to tell who exactly he was looking at. It might have been Ginny, but the entire Weasley family was huddled so close together that it could just as well have been Fleur or Percy. It couldn't be Hermione or Ron, because they were also standing on the stage, one on either side of him, supporting him.

Harry had already made his speech. It had probably been beautiful as well, but he couldn't remember what had been said. Something about not forgetting and being thankful. Had it really only been a week since he'd lost Fred? It seemed like more. Every second without him was an excruciatingly long one.

A few people seemed to rouse themselves and notice that the speech was over. They bowed their heads, and a fraction of a second later, everyone imitated them. Luna slipped her hand into his, and a fraction of a second later, everyone imitated them, reaching out to strangers, grasping hands, standing, like a wall against everything that had befallen them.

They stayed there in silence, unmoving, for Merlin knew how long. It seemed like an eternity to him, but then, lately, everything seemed to last an eternity.

And then Hermione stepped forward and spoke up. She wasn't speaking as loudly as Kingsley, but her voice easily carried over the silent crowd. "Thank you to every family who agreed to let their lost one b – buried here on the Hogwarts grounds."

Her voice was hesitant, her words were genuine and concrete. This wasn't a vague, abstract speech about memory. There were no metaphors, no embellishments.

Strangely, everyone was listening.

"Here is where they will be best remembered. Every new generation of wizards to come here will see and remember their names." She smiled, and it wasn't even a sad smile. It was a strong, brave smile. " And maybe some of them will decide to pay attention in History of Magic lessons."

Why was it this sentence that broke him? He had managed to remain stoic during Harry, Ron and Kingsley's respective speeches. Even when Ron had choked up and blinked back tears. But Hermione's short, direct speech had drilled into him and driven the knife in, straight to the heart. And her last sentence – almost a joke. Maybe that was it. The jokes he had spent his childhood with. Was he now condemned to hate them forever? Why was it making him cry? Why was he crying, damn it?

"George," Luna said suddenly. "You're squeezing my hand right off."

He gave a small half-laugh, half-sob, and relaxed his grip on her hand. "Sorry."

"I think..." She paused. "Harry lent me his cloak. We thought it might come in handy. Come over to the edge with me. No one will notice."

She led him out of the crowd, then handed him the cloak, and without thinking twice George flung it over them both.

"His plaque is over there," Luna whispered, tilting her head towards the Forbidden Forest.

"I know."

He had specifically asked that it be placed there. His family had favoured a _"happier"_ place near the lake, but George had been unrelenting. Fred would have understood the joke.

And besides, no-one else was buried in that area. And right now, privacy was what George craved the most.

They made their way to the very edge of the forest and Luna stopped to look at the ground, but George tugged at her hand.

"It's deeper in," he said. "You can stay here if you like."

She didn't answer and he took that to mean she would follow him. It was strange, but since the end of the war they hadn't left each other. George suspected his sister had something to do with it; she had probably "suggested" to Luna that she support him. But he didn't mind. Luna was comforting in an odd way. She didn't try to get him to talk about Fred, she didn't talk to him like he was about to explode and she acted different around everyone, not just him.

The war and her imprisonment had taken their toll on Luna. That, and her father's betrayal of Harry. Even though it had been for her sake, she hated the thought that all could have been lost because of him – and, indirectly, her. Her dirty-blond hair was permanently tangled and unkempt, her grey eyes were strangely dull, and her expression was tired. Her white robes were the only thing even vaguely outlandish about her clothing. No radish earrings or Spectrespecs or jewellery of any kind. She had changed, but she still treated George like she treated everyone else. That was the main thing.

The plaque was made of gold; bronze may have been more discreet against the earth but gold was _Gryffindor_. It was large, shiny, and the following words were engraved on it in fancy script:

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><p><em>Fred Weasley<em>

_Son of Molly & Arthur Weasley_

_died_

_1st April 1978 – 2nd May 1998_

_**Abiit nemine salutato** _

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><p>"That doesn't look like Fred's grave," Luna said quietly, uncharacteristically serious as George let the Civil Actions Medal fall to the ground, where it hit the plaque with a joyful <em>clink<em>.

"What do you mean?"

"It's too sad," she said, and when she looked at him, her eyes were bright with tears. "'He left without saying goodbye...' It's true, but Fred wouldn't have liked it. You know he wouldn't."

It was true. Fred would have hated it. The Latin bit at the end was typical of pureblood wizards' graves, drab and traditional, a sort of catchphrase that worked in most situations (how many people said good-bye before dying, anyway?). Fred would never have wanted that on his grave.

"I didn't get a say." In truth, he hadn't been capable of doing anything but cry at the time the words had been engraved.

Luna suddenly knelt and drew her wand. Quietly, she started tracing new words into the gold, right beneath the Latin _Abiit nemine salutato_. George wanted to stop her, but that would have left Fred's plaque unfinished; the beginning of a word, never completed. Something open, something that wasn't over. And whatever Fred had ever been, there was one thing he definitely was now: over.

Luna straightened and looked down at her handiwork proudly. Now, in addition to the impersonal, stiff words at the beginning, George could read a new line:

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><p><em><strong>Acta est fabula, plaudite!<strong>_

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><p>Latin was a language he and Fred had spent some time studying (the only thing they'd ever been serious about), because it was great for inventing spells (and other things). So George knew what the sentence meant; it was a rather famous quote. It was almost funny in a grim way, and so completely Fred that George wished he had thought of it. <em>The play is over, applaud!<em>

"Thank you," he heard himself say, and then he dropped to his knees, bowed his head, and started crying. Luna's slight hand settled on his shoulder, a comforting weight he was only barely aware of.

The play was over, Fred was dead, and George was alone.

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><p><strong>I've set up a blog for my fanfiction and will be posting <strong>The Cost of Victory** there too for no particular reason except that it allows me to have fun with the format (theseriesthatneverends - wordpress – com). No spaces, dashes replaced by dots and there you have it. I'll eventually post some fanart on there, and the occasional link to a song/picture ****which inspired something from this fic, but right now it's nothing, really.**

** This third chapter sets ****one of the main themes for the first two or three years after the war, that is to say, George dealing with Fred's death.**** I've never gone through anything like this, so I can only hope I've portrayed George passably enough. You'll see, I suppose.**

** Another difficult chapter, then; except this one is the first I wrote. It stood as the first chapter for months and months, actually; until the story evolved and started having more and more characters and it just made more sense to give Harry the opening chapter. After all, he ****was**** the main character in the books.**

** I found writing George not that difficult; once I started, the words practically came flowing. But Luna isn't easy. Luna is the hardest character to write in the Harry Potter series in my opinion. For that reason, I've never minded too much when she was portrayed a little OOC, as opposed to most other characters; still, if you have advice/complaints concerning her, I'm all ears. **

** Reviews are appreciated because:**

○ **I'm so far from perfect it hurts**

○ **If I get exactly 2 reviews per chapter on this fic, I'll hit 100 reviews. That is, all at once, an astronomical yet totally reasonable (… or not) goal. Help me reach it? **

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><p><strong>PS: I just ran this chapter through spellcheck one final time, and I was horrified to see I hadn't yet added <em>Nymphadora<em> to the dictionary. Kingsley was already there, at least.**


	4. Maybe Someday

** Question: **Um... Where _is_ Draco?

** Answer: **Yeah. Er. Sorry about that. You'll all understand later why he's one of the main characters. He doesn't make an appearance until **Chapter 5** (next chapter, and it's a good one), and then only briefly and not again until **Chapter 9**, but after that he'll be showing up more and more frequently. I think he gets maybe seventeen, eighteen chapters out of fifty, which is a big deal considering I _tried_ to change POVs every chapter. It's about a third of the fic. He totally took over my writing.

** The song for this chapter (can you tell yet I like songs when I'm writing?) is **Maybe Someday** by The Cure. Not as heart-wrenching as Westlife's in the last chapter, but you can't compare this and that. **Maybe Someday** is more powerful and underlines how difficult but necessary Ginny's decision is.**

_Disclaimer:_** JK Rowling, you rock. Harry Potter is yours.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

****Maybe Someday****

****2********nd******** June, 1998****

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><p>Harry was outside in the garden, sitting in the shade of a tree, propped up against the trunk. A red-and-black chequered cloth lay in the grass in front of him, and Ron was sprawled on the other side of it. Chess was the one thing that kept Ron's thoughts from running too dark, so Harry willingly let himself be drawn into game after game, even though he always lost. He had even introduced Ron to Muggle chess, which they were now playing. Ron had found it boring at first, but he had to admit that simply unfolding the cloth was more practical than dragging his precious (and heavy) chess set down the stairs.<p>

Ron said something, and Harry laughed. Her heart tightened painfully in her chest, and she set down the plate she'd set out to clean. She hoisted herself onto the kitchen counter, kicked her feet up beside her, and drew closer to the window, watching him. The laugh lightened his features. He was beautiful, as beautiful as he had always been. After a year on the run, he had returned to her thinner, taller, and older. She hadn't minded, just as he hadn't minded those same changes in her. What mattered was that he had returned. He was alive. And he loved her. Or so he had said. But...

There was no longer a point to their relationship.

The problem, she thought, was Harry's terrible timing. She had spent six years waiting for him to notice her. When he finally had, he had had to leave. And when he came back, everything was different.

They had given it a try because they both still felt _something_. They had been trying for a month now, and the results had been catastrophic. She couldn't tell whether Harry genuinely couldn't see it or was trying to ignore it. She didn't know which situation would be more worrying. Either way, there was no way around the fact that they hadn't kissed once since the Final Battle, as they were calling it, or that they never really spoke. Harry would whisper sweet nothings, void of meaning in their situation, and would stroke her hair in a way that made her feel about as cherished as a pet dog. She would spend minutes staring into his eyes. Beyond a few furtive touches and senseless words... nothing. And they both knew why.

_She_ couldn't stop thinking about Fred. Being happy right now was unimaginable. And Harry... Harry couldn't stop thinking about _anything_. He would start to say something, then stop and stare into nothing, suddenly distant, lost in thought. And it was never a good thought. So many years after meeting him, she had finally found something she hated about Harry Potter. She had always admired his way of taking responsibility for everything, but that had been because he accepted things head on. This was going too far. He was blaming himself for _everything_. It was a miracle that he had even managed a laugh – unless he was faking it for Ron's benefit.

"Ginny?" Hermione's voice said softly from behind her.

It made her jump, and she banged her head on the cupboard above her.

"I'm sorry!" Hermione cried, rushing forward. "I'm sorry, I didn't think –"

"I'm all right," Ginny said, forcing a laugh through the tears that were welling up in her eyes.

She raised a hand to rub the back of her head.

"I'll live. It's not like there's anything worth much up there anyway."

"Oh, Ginny," Hermione said, her tone unusually compassionate for something this trivial.

Ginny caught her quick glance out the window and felt her heart drop. She had never underestimated her friend's perceptiveness: Hermione _knew_. She closed her eyes and looked away, feeling – inexplicably – ashamed.

"Ginny," Hermione said again, putting an arm around her friend as though to hug her. "It's all right."

"It isn't."

"Well, maybe it isn't," Hermione admitted, and Ginny smiled despite herself. "But it isn't the end of the world."

She looked at her friend in askance, as though Ginny's problem might actually be of apocalyptic relevance, and Ginny shook her head.

"You know, it hasn't been easy with Ron lately, either. It's normal, Ginny. We're all somewhat shaken up."

Ginny shook her head again, more vehemently this time. "It's isn't like that," she said. "He's not... 'shaken up.' I mean, I know Ron and I – my entire family – are 'shaken up.' But Harry isn't. He's _changed_. Sometimes it feels like the life has been sucked out of him. Just being with him reminds me of things I don't want to think of." She looked up suddenly. "I know that sounds terribly selfish, but –"

"It doesn't," Hermione said gently. "I think I know what you mean. Look, Ginny, you don't have to go through this. You shouldn't have to hurt like this."

"You mean I should break up with him," Ginny said flatly.

"If that's what you think it would take."

"But I don't want to," Ginny said desperately. "I love him, you know I do. I've wanted to have him for so long and now that he's finally mine, he – " she felt her throat tighten, but she wouldn't cry, she almost never cried – "he's not the same person. But I don't want it to be over. I want to have him back the way he was." The tears were threatening to spill over. "I just want him back," she said, very quietly.

"That's all right." Hermione took one of her hands in hers. "It's normal. We'll bring him back, I promise."

Ginny nodded but didn't say anything. Her throat was too constricted for the words to get out, but Hermione _knew_.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's going to be okay, Ginny, I promise."

Were they still talking about Harry?

* * *

><p>"Lost again, have you, Harry?" Hermione teased as the two boys came in from their chess game. "I can tell from the look on your face."<p>

The look, as she said, was a mad grin that spread from ear to ear and even lit up his eyes. Ginny couldn't see how it might reflect defeat, but she was jealous of Ron for inspiring it in Harry.

"Or from the fact that I've never won a single game against Ron," Harry said, laughing. "_You_ should try someday. I'm sure you'd be better than me – though Ron will tell you that isn't saying much."

"Maybe, but I think I'll avoid the aftermath," Hermione said, eyeing their grass-stained clothing. "How did you manage to do _that_?"

The boys looked sheepish.

"All right, forget it. I don't want to know. You've got mud on your nose, Ronald."

Ron reached up to wipe it off, grinning stupidly – and so sincerely that Ginny felt that pang in her heart again. Was she always going to hurt, now, when someone else was happy? How could she be so despicable?

Why was it that she was never the one to bring out that kind of smile?

"Ginny," Ron said, as though only just noticing her. "Hey, I was wondering. Would you have a pair of Extendable Ears left? Harry and I just thought of something – a sort of prank to play on Crookshanks –"

"Touch that cat and I'll have your hide, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said warningly.

The boys cracked up again, although Harry looked vaguely worried.

This was it. The light, innocent banter exchanged between friends who had been through everything together, _best_ friends. The thing that Ginny couldn't do. Hermione was too close to the boys, Ron _was_ a boy, and Harry had left her tongue-tied for the majority of her Hogwarts years. This was something she could never have with Harry. It was beyond her imagination. She couldn't figure out how these three, who had seen so much and had suffered so much, could still laugh and tease as though nothing had happened – but only between themselves, because Harry's thoughts ran as dark as night-time when he was with _her_.

Hermione seemed to notice her distress – it was probably a girl thing, or maybe just a Hermione thing – and she managed to usher Ron out of the kitchen quickly enough, closing the door behind them. Leaving Ginny alone with Harry.

Who sat down at the table across from her and said, "We need to talk."

Ginny nodded mutely.

Harry reached out across the table and laced his fingers through hers, and Ginny tried not to flinch at the touch. It wasn't what she had been expecting, for a break-up scene, but Harry had always been gentle with her.

"Ginny," he said softly. "Are you okay? You seem... preoccupied, lately."

She smiled at him because she couldn't help it – she had never been able to help it. "I'm fine."

"What were you thinking of just now?"

She flinched then, and he immediately back-pedalled.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said quickly. "I was just –"

"Just asking," she completed. "You didn't really want to hear the answer. You were being polite, like you're supposed to be with a great-great-aunt or something."

"What?" Harry looked genuinely perplexed, and she almost regretted her words.

"_That'_s what I was thinking about, Harry. How we don't act like a couple. We don't even act like _friends_. It's like we're complete strangers being forced to be nice to each other."

There was a long, pregnant pause.

"That's hardly fair, Ginny."

"Isn't it true?"

He shook his head helplessly. "It's difficult for me, Ginny. I'm sorry it's not exactly like before... like it was, that year... but I can't help it. I'm trying. You know I am, don't you?"

She met his piercing green gaze, trying to find strength in them. "I know."

"We can work it out," he said. "I know we can. It might take time, but –"

"I _can't_, Harry. I _can't_ make it work. I keep trying, but you won't let me."

"Ginny –"

"Don't try to hold me back, Harry. I've been thinking about this for days. It's over. _We_'re over. You can't –" her voice caught – "You can't handle the stress of a relationship right now. Maybe later you'll be able to, but right now you can't. And I don't blame you for it. Maybe I'm not ready, either. All I know is it's not working between us."

He looked away, and she knew the sadness in his voice wasn't feigned. "We used to be so good together."

"Maybe someday we can have that again," she said.

* * *

><p><strong><strong> I'm sorry nothing is going right for the moment. I don't mean for this to be a depressing read. The point is, so soon after the war, everyone is broken. I really wanted to illustrate that in the opening chapters. Please tell me what you think. <strong>**

**** Oh right, and if there are British people out there, don't hesitate to cringe at my English and tell me what's wrong.****


	5. The Trial

**_Disclaimer:_** JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 5<strong>**

****The Trial****

****7********th******** July, 1998****

* * *

><p>As he made his way down the corridor and out onto the second floor landing, he couldn't help but wonder why they were all still living at 12, Grimmauld Place.<p>

It had been a month since the Final Battle, as they were calling it now – when they didn't say the Battle of Hogwarts, or the Defeat of Voldemort (the capital letters were strongly implied). Lupin and Tonks were gone. Bill and Fleur had their cottage on the coast. The other Weasleys could all have gone back to the Burrow. But instead, he mused as he leaned against the railing, they had all stayed at Grimmauld Place, maybe because it was big and allowed them to stay together in moderate comfort. He suspected the family needed to stay together and was too polite to leave him alone. George... George was the only one who had left. He had retreated to the flat he had shared with Fred, just above Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. And no-one really sought him out, because he was a painful memory of Fred, the living clone of a dead man. Lee was more or less living with him, and Luna spent most of her days there, too.

He should have been glad that Ron and Hermione were still staying with him, except things were almost more awkward between them then they were between Ginny and him. He could see the feelings were still there, but neither of them could decide themselves to act upon them – Ron was too sad, and Hermione too understanding. They were just_ friends_. And somehow that made everything uncomfortable. Besides, the way Ron's mouth twitched every so often, whenever he thought of Fred, and the way Hermione had become distant and thoughtful – those things made him realise how much the war, and being on the run, had been hard on his friends. And it was his fault. If he hadn't drawn them into this...

And as for Ginny... it hurt to see her every day. Because, no matter what she said – he had been on the run from the Ministry _and_ Voldemort for a year and he couldn't _handle_ the _stress_ of a relationship? –, she was the one who had broken up with him. She was the one who had said, two weeks after the Final Battle, that they couldn't go on. She was the one who had said Stop, and she was the one who had called him _"broken."_ He resented her for it, because he had wanted her to stay. He could see the looks she gave him and hear the longing in her voice when she spoke to him, but she never faltered in her decision. And it was ripping him apart.

He was somewhat glad that today was a different day, that there was something to take his mind off things for a while. He had thrown himself into his research for a few days, elaborating a strategy and practising his oral skills. Hermione had helped him, somewhat bemused by his energy, and Ron had said, dismissively, that just the fact that he was _Harry Potter_ would be enough. And he was probably right, but Harry hadn't wanted to look like an idiot.

He leaned on the stair railing. "When I found _Voldemort_ in the Forbidden Forest," he recited under his breath, accentuating the name that Hermione had said would still make most people flinch, "he cast a curse..."

"You know it by heart, Harry," Hermione said, coming up from behind him, but her tone was light. "Ron is probably right, anyway. The Wizengamot should be too busy staring at your scar to listen to you. Here," she said, reaching up and pushing a strand of hair aside so his scar was clearly visible. "Now that you're the Saviour, it's your duty to the wizarding world to be proud of this scar."

"You're joking," he said, wondering if he sounded as horrified as he felt. He smoothed his hair back over his forehead to hide the scar again.

"Only a little," she said. "Some people will feel that way. And by the way – everyone will be surprised by your presence at this trial. Some probably won't be pleased. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course I do. Hermione, I _know_ they aren't priests and nuns. They'll never be the type to donate to charities and love their neighbours. But they don't deserve to rot in Azkaban. I think there's still something in there that's worth saving."

"I know you do, Harry," she said soothingly. "And I believe you. I'm not the one you're going to have to convince." She glanced at her watch. "The trial is in a half-hour. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Let's go, then."

They made their way down the steps. From the kitchen, Mrs Weasley saw them cross the corridor to their shoes on.

"Is it time?" she asked

"Almost," Hermione said.

Mrs Weasley looked grim. "Well... good luck, then, I suppose."

Hermione shrugged on a thin jacket over her t-shirt, as the air was fresh outside. "Thanks." She looked at Harry's robes appraisingly. "It should be fine."

"How come you get jeans and a t-shirt?" Harry wanted to know as they headed out into Grimmauld Place.

Hermione pointed at an old oak, tall and wide with branches and leaves that provided

sufficient shade, which grew in a small, fenced park down the street.

"Over there," she said, then turned her head to look at Harry. "I'm not the one who'll be pleading at the trial. _You_ have to be presentable. Remember your trial in fifth year? You said Fudge really wanted to find you guilty. Well, it's going to be the same thing this time. The Wizengamot has likely already decided on a life sentence in Azkaban. You're going to have to convince them otherwise. It might not be easy."

"You just told Ron's mother it would be fine!"

"I may have exaggerated a little."

When they reached the tree, she turned to face him. "You are aware, of course, that what you're going to do is illegal."

"It's the fastest way, since you've never been there."

"_Highly_ illegal," she said, placing emphasis on the word highly. "Since you don't have your license yet."

"Hermione, we knocked out three Ministry employees and broke in to steal something belonging to another Ministry employee. How legal is that? In fact," he went on, "how legal was anything we did last year?"

He held out his arm and she placed her hand on it. He closed his eyes, felt the uncomfortable tug of Apparition that signalled success before they were sent spiralling toward their destination: Ministry of Magic, visitor's entrance. Or at the very least a few feet off, somewhere Muggles wouldn't see them appear out of thin air. They walked the rest of the way, trying to look inconspicuous.

"Okay," Hermione said, eyeing the telephone box, which looked like any other telephone box – once-red, covered with graffiti and missing glass panels. "I've never been here. Are you sure this is the place?"

Harry looked around. "More or less. Get in."

"Won't it look weird, two people..."

"I don't think they'll notice. The telephone box is probably Charmed. Here – hold the receiver while I dial. Do you know how long it's been since I last held a phone in my hands?" He paused. "Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure the Dursleys never did let me touch their phone."

He muttered the numbers as he punched them in, knowing he had remembered them correctly when the dial whirred back into place and a female voice started speaking.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Harry Potter, invited by the Ministry to bear witness in a trial, and Hermione Granger, erm, accompanying me."

"Thank you," the voice said. "Please take the badges and attach them to your robes."

There was a clanging sound as the badges hit the bottom of the metal chute. He took his – _Harry Potter, Trial Witness _– and handed Hermione's over to her.

"Visitors, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

The telephone box shuddered as it began to sink into the ground.

* * *

><p>"Courtroom Ten," Harry said, looking at the door. "Here it is."<p>

It was unmistakable. He'd remembered as soon as he set foot in the dark, stone hallway, dimly lit with torches in brackets. Cold stone walls, dark wooden doors. The door to Courtroom Ten seemed to be the darkest of all, with an iron bolt and rusty hinges that promised to squeal loudly when you opened the door. This was the courtroom where his own hearing had been held a few years previously. Where the Lestranges had been sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, her voice very quiet.

He looked over at her without seeing her. She had put the Cloak on as soon as they had entered the hallway. She wasn't allowed to come into the courtroom, and this was what Harry had come up with to make sure he wouldn't be going in alone. He knew that if he could see Hermione right now, her expression would be one of concern.

"Spell," he said.

He heard Hermione whisper an incantation that would silence any sound the door might make as it opened and closed. The last thing they needed was anyone wondering why the door had suddenly slammed open and shut by itself.

"It's done," she said. "The trial should start in about five minutes. Do you want to go in?"

"We might as well get it over with," he said, and bent his knees a little so Hermione could reach up and throw the Cloak over him as well. He didn't know how many people had been informed he would be present, but he was counting on the effect of surprise.

Slipping into the courtroom was disturbingly easy. Not a single member of the Wizengamot looked up as they entered. Harry supposed there were no charms protecting the courtroom doors from the outside – possibly from the inside, so no one would escape, but who would want to break _into_ a courtroom? They slid past a few empty benches on either side of them, then chose one, far enough away from the aisle that no one would accidentally trip over them, but close enough to the Wizengamot benches that they wouldn't miss anything.

In the centre of the room, three chairs stood, arm to arm, covered in chains that, Harry suspected, would gleefully leap up to bind the Malfoys into place. He felt sick just looking at them.

The door was brutally pushed open, and six guards strode in smartly, half-turning as soon as they had entered so they were lining the passage. Three shapes followed, moving more slowly but deliberately, their dark robes hanging loosely, making them look more like shadows than actual people. Six more guards ended the small procession, slamming the door behind them and bolting it.

"Ah," said the wizard at the very centre of the first row, straightening up. "Have them take their seats."

Harry looked at him for the first time. So _this_ was Jonas Barrelton, whom Kingsley had chosen as his right-hand man. He had been a member of the Wizengamot for many years before Kingsley elevated him to the position of Senior Undersecretary. Harry had never met him before, but McReady had written about him in his letters. He was an unremarkable man, probably in his fifties, not very tall but straight-backed and proud, with white-streaked hair and a crooked nose. Something in his expression made him seem vindictive, but he had to have some qualities if Kingsley trusted him. Kingsley was busy and often chose to delegate on things that were more administrative than political. This week, he was in Bulgaria, at a meeting which reunited the heads of three of the most prominent wizarding countries. Unexpectedly enough, Percy had been given the chance to go abroad with him to dabble with international politics. Even more unexpectedly, Percy had declined the offer extremely politely to stay in England near his family, and Kingsley had given him a desk job with flexible hours at the International Magical Office of Law instead.

Harry watched from underneath the cloak as the Malfoys were led forward. They seemed haggard. Their robes were dirty, their faces pale, their hair unkempt. They looked as though they hadn't slept in days, and there were already shackles around their wrists and ankles.

"Why are they dressed like that?" he asked Hermione as the guards roughly pushed the Malfoys into the chairs.

The chains clinked and clanged as they came to life, rising slowly to clap their shackles around the three's wrists and ankles.

"I don't know," she whispered back. "But you can be sure they didn't have a choice in the matter."

"Trial number three-zero-one-six-four-four-one," Barrelton said in a loud voice. His tone was cultured, but not quite as deep as Kingsley's. "Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, and Narcissa Malfoy, residents at Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. Due to the extremely severe nature of the accusations, the accused were held in a high-security cell in the prison of Azkaban while awaiting their trial..."

"Azkaban!" Hermione repeated in a hoarse whisper. "For over two months! Harry, did you know about this?"

"No one told me," he replied, feeling as horrified as she sounded. "McReady didn't even _mention_ it when I met him last week! I – Godric."

"Interrogators: Jonas Anthony Barrelton, Senior Undersecretary to the Interim Minister and Athena Marie Wilkins, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Court Scribe: Hailey Minora Perkins. Witness for the defence: Ethan Matthew McReady. The charges against the accused are as follows: that they all three did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of their actions, serve He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as Death Eaters, and that they did commit the offences of murder, theft, and violation of property. How do the accused respond to these charges?"

"Not guilty, due to extremely mitigating circumstances," the witness for the defendant, whom Harry had met the previous week, responded.

His first intuition had been, as he had told Harry, that there was no way out for the Malfoys but Azkaban. He had planned to plead guilty and see his clients imprisoned for life without a second thought, because that was the only reasonable thing to do. Then Harry had contacted him, and he had found himself a reason to fight. At first he had wanted to have Narcissa, alone, be acquitted as her husband and son were convicted; after all, she didn't wear the Dark Mark, and she was the one who had saved Harry's life. But Harry wouldn't hear any of that, either.

"My clients," McReady began now, "were forced into serving..."

Even Malfoy rolled his eyes at that, and Harry winced internally. McReady hadn't struck him as a terribly bright person, but he hadn't been expecting this _faux pas_. Everyone knew the Malfoys had, at least at first, joined Voldemort of their own free will. Their change of heart had been very last-minute.

"We have witnesses," Barrelton said, "who can assert that the Malfoys were zealous and willing followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Witnesses!" McReady repeated. "Death Eaters, most likely. Who else could be that well informed? I am not denying that my clients were efficient in serving He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But I will say that they only did so out of fear for their lives. As for your witnesses, how much can you trust their word?"

"The testimonies were deemed valid enough to appear in court," Barrelton said stiffly. "We also have testimonies from fighters who saw them with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the Battle of Hogwarts. Can your clients deny these accusations?"

"As I said, they were not willing and so cannot be accused of murder. _Murder_, I should like to remind the Wizengamot, is defined by Henry Bernstuckle as the unlawful killing of a human being carried out voluntarily and without justification or excuse. And this definition cannot apply to my clients."

"Harry," Hermione suddenly hissed, and he turned his head to look at her. "I've just realised something. They only released the Dementors in June. The Malfoys spent a whole month in their presence. That's why they look like – like _that_."

Remembering the effect the Dementors had had on him in his third year, before he learnt to cast a Patronus, Harry felt sick.

"Excuse me," said a witch with a very crooked black hat, raising her hand. When Barrelton nodded at her, she said, to McReady, "If I am understanding this correctly, your 'extremely mitigating circumstances' are the fact that the Malfoys' lives were threatened?"

"That is correct."

"And how can this be verified?" the witch challenged. "And why would the Malfoys escape retribution when so many Death Eaters, undoubtedly under the same 'pressure,' if you can call it that, were found guilty? Unless you are insinuating that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named found it amusing to threaten the Malfoys, and only the Malfoys?"

"Verified?" McReady repeated. "Verified, Miss Hodges? Why, the very presence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is a threat of death. And the guilt of the criminals you speak of is not to be questioned. My clients have more –"

"More 'mitigating circumstances,' most surely," Hodges said with a sarcastic smile. "Can your clients deny that they joined the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named willingly?"

Harry sucked in a breath at that. _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._ How could they drag the title out every time they opened their mouths to say something? He clenched his right fist, looking at the white scar on the back of his hand. _I must not tell lies._

He silently slipped out from under the cloak, making sure that Hermione remained concealed, and sank back into the shadows that lined the walls of the badly-lit room.

McReady looked uneasy. "No, ma'am."

"Can they deny that they carried out his orders?"

"No, ma'am, but –"

"Can they deny," Hodges said, her voice hard, "truthfully, that they have ever killed innocents, destroyed houses and ruined lives on the orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"No, ma'am, but –" McReady tried again, but Hodges ignored him and turned to Barrelton.

"Thank you. I have no more questions."

"The witness for the defendant is now called upon to present proof of his extremely mitigating circumstances," Barrelton said, peering at McReady over his glasses. "Unless, of course, such proof were to not exist..."

"How could there be proof?" someone asked. "It has been established that the Malfoy family were servants of He-Who-Must –"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is _dead_," Harry said in as loud a voice as he could manage, and strode forward to the middle of the room, so he was – symbolically – standing between the shackled Malfoys and the Senior Undersecretary. He ignored the murmurs of recognition and went on: "He's dead, and he's not coming back, ever. And his name was no more unmentionable than yours or mine. He was born Tom Riddle and he styled himself Lord Voldemort. Pick whichever name you want, but don't be afraid of them anymore."

He looked at the Wizengamot, who were suddenly all staring avidly, eyes focused on his scar, his face, his expression.

"Full name?" Barrelton asked senselessly.

"Harry James Potter. I will be a witness during this trial. I'm the one who's going to show you the mitigating circumstances Mr McReady was talking about."

The murmurs became ones of surprise, but again he ignored them.

"Recall the moments leading up to _Voldemort_'s defeat," he began. "You've all heard the story . Rubeus Hagrid holding my dead body. Neville Longbottom killing the snake Nagini. And suddenly, my appearance, alive and whole. The final duel..." His eyes lost focus and the world blurred before him. He forgot his carefully rehearsed speech, and it didn't even matter anymore. "Everyone wondered how I made it through, how _Voldemort _could have been so convinced of my death that he bragged about it not only to his followers, but to my – to the people who believed in me. How even one of my friends, Hagrid, who held me in his arms, was persuaded he had just watched me die." The world was sharper now, detailed enough for him to meet Miss Hodges' gaze frankly. "Do you want to know how?"

Almost unconsciously, every member of the Wizengamot either nodded slightly, or leaned forward.

"The answer," Harry said, stepping to the side so he was no longer shielding the Malfoys, "Is Narcissa Malfoy.

"For her son," he went on, looking straight at Barrelton now, "She lied to Voldemort himself. How many of you here would have been able to do the same? If Voldemort had chosen to sift through her mind using Legilimency, he would have seen the lie and punished her. She chose to take that risk, but why? Not for me," he said. "For her son.

"Do you want to know the words she said to me before announcing to the Death Eaters and Voldemort that I was dead?" He lowered his voice. "'Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?'"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy jump and turn his head to look at his mother. But Narcissa was staring straight ahead, her fingers tightly clenched around the arms of the chair, her face pale.

"Narcissa Malfoy knew I had survived Voldemort's attack," he said loudly. "She could feel my pulse and hear my breath as surely as you are hearing my voice right now. If Voldemort had known I was alive, he would have cast a – a more effective curse –" He stumbled over the lie, because no-one had to know that he had, in a way, come back from the dead – "and killed me. Narcissa's act saved my life, and in turn, saved yours and that of thousands of wizards across England and around the world. She contributed to the defeat of Voldemort when she knowingly and _willingly_ joined my side to protect her family. And for that, I believe she deserves to keep that family outside of Azkaban."

There was a long silence after he stopped. The Wizengamot seemed to be expecting more.

He felt the unreasonable anger rise in him once more, and had to fight to keep his tone even. His next words were as much a gamble as a challenge.

"If anyone doubts my word, I could willingly submit my memory of that night to you. And that's all I had to say."

Some members of the Wizengamot nodded at that, but most, as Harry had been hoping, seemed uneasy about admitting they didn't trust him. He _was_ the Saviour, after all.

The silence stretched on, and the moment passed. He wasn't going to be required to give over his memory.

McReady seemed to decide to be useful for once. "If perhaps the Wizengamot has any questions..."

"I have one," a wizard with a face like a prune said, raising his hand. "What about Lucius Malfoy? The kid is young and his mother has some maternal instinct left, but the father was a Death Eater for many years."

"Lucius Malfoy," Harry said calmly, "was a respected member of the Ministry for just as many years. Why do you select only the portions of his past that further your goal?"

"He tried to depose Dumbledore as Headmaster of Hogwarts a few years ago!" someone called.

"He was accused of theft and fiscal fraud!"

"There was a complaint against him concerning corruption!"

"And he was cleared of all charges on both cases," Harry said, overriding the voices. "As for the incident in 1993, the school was in great danger and the Minister at the time, Cornelius Fudge, approved the decision, which would not have been carried out if it had been any different."

"Well, Cornelius _was_ a fool," someone said, and Harry almost smiled.

"Any other questions?" Barrelton said.

"Yes," the witch named Hodges said, and Harry winced. "How can you believe that a last-minute change of heart should wipe the slate clean, Mr Potter? The Malfoys doubtless have the blood of dozens on their hands. Narcissa Malfoy wanted to save her son's life. Any mother would have done the same. How can it excuse the crimes?"

Harry saw something flicker in the eyes of the Wizengamot members and knew Hodges had stirred something in them. The element of surprise was lost, and they were slowly coming away from their awe of him. He had to pull them back to him, quickly, or the Malfoys would be lost.

Why did he care?

"I'm not saying that my life is worth more than the lives of those who died," he began, then paused. "I mean – I know these aren't innocent people. I've hated them ever since I first met them. So don't think I'm biased or anything. But I've seen cruel people. I've seen insane people. I do think that some people deserve Azkaban – I just don't think the Malfoys are among them. Most people can be good, if you just give them a chance. And I've seen, first hand, that the Malfoys can, too. If they choose to."

"Any other questions?" Barrelton asked again.

The members of the Wizengamot looked at each other, but no-one stepped forward.

"Then I believe it is time to deliberate." He tapped on his desk with his fist as though calling for order, and it occurred to Harry that this might be the first time a witness for the defendant had appeared at a trial before him. "Those in favour of clearing all charges?"

A couple of hands were immediately raised, and Harry smiled tightly at the wizards they belonged to, then scanned the faces of the rest. They seemed hesitant, as though unwilling to let their prey go. More hands rose, but slowly. And not nearly enough. He cursed internally.

"Those in favour of conviction," Barrelton said, and raised his hand.

Harry knew when a case was lost. His heart sank, and he refused to look at the Malfoys as hands shot up, one after the other. Instead he stared straight at Barrelton, wondering at the sick feeling in his stomach. What was it to him, after all, if the Malfoys were judged guilty? They _were_ guilty.

"The sentence has been previously discussed by the present members of the Wizengamot. As the Malfoy family has been convicted, they are sentenced to –"

There was a very soft cough that nevertheless seemed to resonate in the air of the closed courtroom. Barrelton looked up from the parchment he was going to read and shot an annoyed glance at the witch in the crooked hat.

"Yes, Miss Hodges? Do you have an objection to make?"

"I do," the witch replied, standing up.

All eyes swivelled to her.

"In light of the information which has been brought forward during the trial, I believe the previously agreed punishment may not be suited to the case anymore. I would suggest another sentence and would have it submitted to a vote."

There was a heavy silence, and Harry felt Hodges had either just done something very brave, or very stupid.

"Very well," Barrelton said finally. "What would that suggestion be, then?"

"10,000 Galleons to be paid to the Ministry, which will all go to the division responsible of war affairs. 10,000 more to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in reparation. And an additional 5,000 to St Mungo's Hospital, to the wards responsible of war-related injuries and conditions and dark magic. " She paused, letting the information sink in. "The Malfoys would walk free."

Harry started; around him, every Wizengamot member sat up straighter. The proposition was absurd, the sums astronomical. 25,000 Galleons! She couldn't be serious. It represented enough money to completely clean out his Gringotts vault. The Malfoys were rich, obviously – of course they were –, but could their finances bear _this_?

Still, he could not stop his heart from leaping with terrible, insane hope.

"Has everyone heard the suggestion?" Barrelton asked the Wizengamot. "Perkins, have you written it down?"

"Yes, sir," came the Court Scribe's voice. "10,000 Galleons to the Ministry, 10,000 to Hogwarts, 5,000 to St Mungo's."

"Then let us proceed," Barrelton said. "Those in favour of the suggestion?"

There was a silence, and it seemed to Harry that no-one would step forward. A few tentative hands eventually rose, the same that had wanted to declare the Malfoys innocent. Then more and more. Hodges' was not among them; what was the witch playing at? This wasn't enough yet... not yet... not yet...

Then Hodges raised her hand, and after a few seconds half-a-dozen wizards followed. She seemed to exert a certain amount of influence on her colleagues. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy's face light up, but his parents remained impassive.

"Those in favour of the previously decided on sentence, life imprisonment in Azkaban?" Barrelton said, and raised his hand.

The hands were much fewer, and Harry let out a tiny sigh of relief – or maybe it was victory. He turned, naturally, to grin at the Malfoys, but caught himself before he did. Instead, as the Senior Undersecretary declared the Malfoys free to go home, with an escort that would accompany them to Gringotts the following morning, he shook McReady's hand. Then he nodded at the Malfoys and left the room, ignoring the Wizengamot member who was calling his name, obviously wanting to ask him a question.

"That went well," Hermione said, throwing the cloak back suddenly. "Even though you spent days rehearsing a speech you didn't even use in the end."

"I completely forgot it," he admitted, and was pleased to hear her laugh. "But I got what I came for, anyway."

"Their faces," Hermione said, smiling widely. "The Wizengamot members when they saw you come in! I don't think they could have been more surprised. I'm surprised no-one asked you for an autograph." She laughed again. "In five or ten years, they'll be telling their children and grandchildren that they were once in the same room as the famous Harry Potter, and they didn't even get his autograph!"

"Cut it out," he said, "I don't want to go around signing everyone's favourite poster of me."

"Of course you don't, your handwriting is terrible. If you would just _apply_ yourself –"

"– then my autographs would look cooler?" he suggested.

She laughed.

* * *

><p><strong><strong> Lookie, there's laughter in this chapter! It isn't all depressing! <strong>**

**** I thought this scene was important, but that may have something to do with my newfound Draco-mania. I do like this chapter, though. I think it's one of my favourites, just because I really wanted to write it. You can tell because it's one of those on the longer side.****

**** Don't forget to review. ****


	6. I Miss my Parents

****I don't own anything!****

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><p><strong><strong>Chapter 6<strong>**

****I Miss my Parents****

****18********th******** July, 1998****

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><p>There was so much more to do than she had imagined. The call for volunteers had been productive; at least fifty people had shown up on the first day, and there were more and more every day. None of them seemed to be discouraged by the amount of work to be done; if anything, it was just the opposite. They threw themselves into their task, as efficient and motivated as she could have hoped for. That first day, right after the Battle, spent writing down everything to do with Harry hadn't been wasted. She had kept the list and organised everything with it, ticking off things as they were completed, writing ideas and question marks beside every item. The collapsed wall on the third floor was a problem. It was difficult to find volunteers to go into the Forbidden Forest to uproot damaged trees and plant new ones. But overall, things were progressing at breakneck speed.<p>

The most difficult day had been when the painting experts had come to take down several canvases, deemed as irreparable. Many people had openly cried then, and it had wrenched her own heart to see them go. But they had cheered up by the end of the week, when the Fat Lady had honoured her house and agreed to stay. There had been many ups and down like that, failures followed by victories. It had been balanced just enough to give everyone enough heart to go on, and go on they did.

She worked herself half to death, but it was worth it. In just a few weeks the school had been Transfigured. It was being restored to its former glory, and she was behind it all. How could she explain to anyone how warm the feeling that gave to her was? Mrs Weasley worried about her (as though the poor woman didn't have enough to worry about already). So did almost everyone she talked to, even in passing (_Are you sure you're all right?_). But they were wrong, every single one of them. There was nothing to worry about. This work was what gave her strength, what gave her the courage to get up in the mornings. It gave her a purpose and filled the emptiness in her heart.

Harry understood. He was the same. The scrawny eleven-year-old she had met on the Hogwarts Express was now taller than her, straightened up instead of beaten down by experience, and there was a look in his eyes that made him seem older than he really was. More driven and efficient than any of the others, he was a role model to most of them (but did he even realise it?). Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived (they said _the Saviour_ now), bodily taking on every task she could throw at him and getting it done more quickly than anyone else. He intimidated them, and they feared and admired him at the same time. But even the Saviour couldn't keep up this pace for long, and it was starting to show in his strained expression and drawn face. She worried about him, but she tried not to let it show because she knew it would only irritate him (_I said I'm fine!_).

She was starting to feel the effects of it herself. Too much work, not enough rest. She couldn't sleep at night (did she even want to?). At first, she tried. But she quickly found that sleepless nights were better than nightmares, and she avoided her bed, instead sitting at her desk all night, planning the next day's schedule – who would be doing what and how. And then there was the subject of food, which made her feel sick just by looking at it. She had always had a healthy, if not tremendous appetite for the food the Hogwarts elves cooked for them, and she might have worried if it hadn't been a common symptom. Harry and Ginny didn't have much appetite lately, and even Ron didn't finish his plate anymore. Eating seemed futile.

But, she told herself again, squaring her shoulders, it was worth it. Worth it to see everyone working side by side after the war, everyone putting aside their disagreements and grudges (she had just seen Lee Jordan talking with Imogen Lanarl) to do something productive. The Slytherins had been the biggest surprise. She hadn't been expecting any of them, but four had shown up: Zabini, Nott, and the Lanarl twins, who were two years younger. At first, they had stuck together, but then they had spread out and almost blended in (a remarkable feat considering that Nott's father was a Death Eater). Harry had simply frowned and ignored them; but she could see him tense up and feel for the wand up his sleeve whenever Nott was in the same room as him. And she was sure Nott noticed, too. Even just now, from her vantage point at the top of the Astronomy Tower, she thought she could see Nott working alongside two other wizards, long past Hogwarts age. There was something satisfying in the sight, even though, like Harry, she had a hard time shaking the feeling of suspicion he inspired in her.

She wondered what they would have done if Malfoy had shown up. But that was a ridiculous thought, because neither Malfoy nor his parents had been seen since the end of the war. They were keeping a low profile, and given the charges weighing against them, it wasn't surprising. (But Nott's family would also soon be facing a trial, including the boy himself.) (How did she know that?)

"Hermione?"

She turned, saw Luna, and smiled at her friend. "Yes?"

"A new load of supplies has just arrived... They aren't sure where to put them, the room we've been using as storage is full."

"Supplies?" she repeated, searching her mind. "You mean the stones? I... we'll just leave them outside for now, okay?"

"I'll tell them," Luna said, smiling warmly – if a little wearily in Hermione's opinion. "By the way, Imogen wants to see you."

She furrowed her brow. "Again?"

Luna had struck up an odd friendship with the girl, the more pleasant of the Lanarl twins, but Hermione found her somewhat irritating. She was friendly enough, but worried incessantly. She had a constant stream of questions ready for Hermione, all of the _What if?_ sort and all pessimistic to some degree.

"That's what I said," Luna said. "But I told her you'd come down. She'll probably be in the Great Hall." Her gaze searched Hermione's. "Look, I can tell her you're not available –"

"No, no," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I'll come. Lead the way."

"Okay," Luna said, setting her hand on the rail that spiralled down the steps. "And before I forget, Harry was looking for you, too."

This time, it was all Hermione could do not to let out a sigh. _It's worth it_, she had to remind herself as she started to head down the stairs. Luna spoke the entire way, her voice lacking that dreamy quality as she relayed information on progress and problems encountered during the day. Hermione took mental note of everything, knowing she would have to write it down quickly or it would slip her mind. (That was happening more and more frequently now.)

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed when they reached the second floor. "I was looking for you. This –"

His lips moved, but no words came out. Nothing but a garbled mess, mingling with Luna's stream of information. She blinked twice, faltered, lost her balance and caught herself on the rail. Harry's face twisted in concern. She was tired... so very _tired_. Why did she notice this only now?

Her foot slipped on a step.

It seemed an eternity before the fall registered, and then there was a sickening crack as her head hit the ground. Then nothing.

* * *

><p>Harry was pacing the waiting room, going five steps in one direction, then spinning around and going five steps in the opposite direction. The other wizards kept shooting him dirty looks, but he ignored them. It was a way to calm his nerves; besides, so long as he annoyed them superficially, they might not think to see his scar. He'd rather filthy looks than whispers.<p>

The door opened, and he rushed to the Healer, a weary-looking man with intelligent eyes and long white hair.

"What happened? Is she going to be all right?"

"She's going to be just fine," the Healer assured him. "The blow to her head was less important than we thought. She only fell because she was going to lose consciousness anyway. She'll have a light concussion, but otherwise, her head should be fine. She'll have to rest for a couple of days, though. She woke up, but we put her back under sedation to ensure her a better sleep. She'll be able to leave the hospital in a couple of days."

"She fainted? Why?"

"Well," the Healer said, eyeing him over small wiry spectacles, "She seems to have collapsed from overexertion."

"Overexertion?"

"Too much activity, Mr Potter," the Healer said gently.

One of the waiting wizards raised his head sharply at the name.

"The rest will do her a world of good. Hasn't she seemed stressed out lately?" He waited patiently for an answer, and when none came, he didn't press further. "She's also suffering from a beginning of malnutrition, so she'll have to be careful with how much she eats for a while. And I'm pleased to say that's all."

"That's all?" Harry repeated.

_Overexertion and malnutrition._ The words rang in his head. She'd exerted herself too much. And she _had_ been working herself to the bone, as Mrs Weasley had put it. Why hadn't he listened to her?

"You seem tired as well, Mr Potter," the Healer said. "May I suggest a medical examination –"

"No, thank you," he said, a little too quickly.

He knew what the nurses would find, he thought, looking down at his hand. His fingers were bone-thin. _Overexertion and malnutrition._ He'd been spending every waking hour with Hermione. He'd been feeling weak these past few days; he could have lost consciousness instead of her. He'd concealed his headaches and blurred vision with care. Hermione had probably been doing the same.

"Mr Potter," the Healer said again.

This time, the waiting wizard's searching gaze found the scar it was looking for. He locked eyes with Harry for a fraction of a second, but Harry was the one who looked away first, to turn his attention back to the Healer.

"She should suffer no long-term repercussions, but it is my duty to inform you of the risks her behaviour puts her at. Malnutrition is a very important risk factor for diseases. Please be sure to tell her that. Naturally, we will, as well, but sometimes a friend's advice is worth more than a Healer's words. And perhaps you would do well to keep an eye on her sleeping habits as well."

"None of us sleep very well," Harry said, surprised to hear himself saying the words out loud, "since the Battle."

"Yes," the Healer said. "Then perhaps a sort of..." He seemed sheepish. "It's not exactly Healing, now, is it? But if I might recommend seeing a wizarding psychiatrist, perhaps specialised in sleep deprivation."

"I'll tell her," Harry assured him, knowing he wouldn't and trying to keep a straight face at the idea of sending Hermione to a psychiatrist's. "But I doubt she'll go."

"Trying is the first step," the Healer said, and glanced back at the door. "I'm afraid I must leave, but she'll be fine, Mr Potter."

"May I see her?"

"She might not be awake," the Healer warned, "but feel free to come in, yes. The sedative should wear off in a little while, but she might not wake up immediately."

Harry followed him through the door, which led to a corridor with a dozen doors leading off to different patients' rooms. The Healer stopped at room 54773 and opened the door, letting Harry in before closing it again behind him.

Hermione was asleep, lying on the bed with her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open, looking as vulnerable as a child. Her hair was fanned out across the pillow, as tangled as it had ever been. She was wired up to half-a-dozen magical _things_ (there really was no other word), one of which beeped ominously every five seconds. But she was asleep, and she seemed peaceful.

Why was it that he only now noticed the way her skin was drawn tightly over her cheekbones, the way her elbows were only sharp points and her wrists looked like they could easily snap in two?

Probably he should Floo the Weasleys now (should have done it already), but he didn't have the courage to do even that. He could have lied and told himself that he didn't want them to worry needlessly, but as it was, something else caused his decision. He knew, for one thing, that Hermione would have his hide. For another, he also knew that Molly Weasley's keen eyes would spot the identical symptoms in Harry himself and he would never hear the end of it.

Ron would have wanted to know, but it was better for him if he didn't. Hermione was going to come back in one piece, after _a couple of days_. Merlin, she would hate that, a couple of days lying around doing nothing. But it would probably be good for her, as the Healer had said.

Hermione stirred, and her eyelashes fluttered. Selfishly he reached out and stroked her face with one hand, knowing it would wake her up. It did, and she turned and smiled woozily up at him.

"Hey, Harry... what time is it?"

"Five in the afternoon," Harry told her, and almost laughed when her eyebrows shot up.

"What? Why did – " She looked around, and something like understanding flooded her features. "Oh. St Mungo's?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

He took one of her hands in his, staring at the stick-like fingers, the paleness of the skin. "You're sick."

"What? What do I have?"

"Something terrible," he said, deadpan. "You have two weeks to live."

She saw through him, though. "Stop, Harry, you scared me. What _really_ happened?"

"You slipped and hit your head," he said, smiling. "The Healer says your brain will never be up to its full mental capacity again, but aside from that, you're going to be okay."

She squeezed her fingers around his hand.

"Ouch, stop that, it hurts."

"Serves you right," she said. "I'd whack you on the head if I had the strength to, but they drugged me, didn't they?"

"They said 'sedated.'"

"Same difference. _Now_ will you tell me what happened?"

"You fainted," he said truthfully. "The Healer said you were undernourished and that you were doing too much."

"That's ridiculous," she said. "I haven't been training for a marathon. You were with me; I wasn't running around all the time."

"He also said something about sleep patterns."

She winced. "I'll admit to not sleeping well lately."

"And that's it, really. I haven't told Ron and Ginny; do you want me to?"

She shook her head. "I'll be fine, right? I don't want them to worry about me."

"They worry anyway."

"Well, they shouldn't," she retorted. "I'm perfectly okay. We should be worrying about them, not the other way around." Her eyes lost their focus. "Harry..."

"I'm right here."

It seemed a long time before she spoke again. When she did, her voice was soft and plaintive like a child's.

"Harry... I miss my parents."

He was quiet for a while. He thought of parents, of Mrs Weasley's warm hugs and Arthur's fascination for Muggles. He thought of the picture of Lily and James' wedding. He thought of Sirius' laugh, the real one that allowed you to see his tonsils. Of Hermione's parents, dropped off in Australia to fend for themselves and forget they ever had a daughter.

He squeezed her hand, warmly. "We'll find them, I promise."


	7. Fortune Is Glass

****If anyone's wondering, ******_Fortuna vitrea est; tum cum splendet frangitur _******means, according to the net, "Fortune is glass; just when it gleams brightest it shatters." I found the quote while searching for something in Latin (since a lot of the spells in Harry Potter come from Latin, and Hogwarts' motto ******_**Draco Dormiens Nunquam **_**__**Titillandus**__**** is in Latin). I found it very evocative of how 2********nd******** May was a date to be remembered both because it was the day the war ended (that would be the gleams brightest part) and because it was the day over fifty people lost their lives (shatters). And it also made me think of how Fred was laughing when he died.****

**** That's just my interpretation, but I really liked the quote.****

**_Disclaimer:_****** JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.****

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><p><strong><strong>Chapter 7<strong>**

**Fortune Is Glass**

**21****st**** July, 1998**

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><p>George had no idea why he was here. The castle he'd spent the better part of his teenage years in couldn't be worth the pain it caused to just set foot <em>here<em>. He hadn't come here in over a month – not since the ceremony.

The castle loomed above him, whole once more. That was why he was here – to _celebrate_. Celebrate the rebuilding of Hogwarts.

It had all been very quick, considering the size of the actual building. It had only taken a little over a month to get the castle back together. That was probably because almost every single wizard who had ever attended Hogwarts had pitched in to help. Lee had described it in length, depicting hundred-year-old witches tottering about fixing statues and straightening paintings as well as kids as young as ten doing whatever they could to help. The way Lee said it, George wondered if he was the only wizard in England who hadn't shown up. Even the Malfoys had "donated" a large sum of money to the cause. Not that they had had a choice; that particular sum of money had been confiscated by the Ministry. The Malfoys had escaped Azkaban, but they wouldn't escape retribution.

If everyone had come to rebuild Hogwarts, then everyone and their dog had come for the official re-opening. It was even more crowded than it had been during the monument to the dead's inauguration. And there – _there_. Right on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, hiding in the shade. Slytherins.

Zabini's handsome profile was what sold them out. Once George had realized that that height and that colouring could only be his, he quickly identified the others. Nott, the Greengrass sisters, and – the nerve of her – even _Parkinson_ had come. Then two more he didn't recognize, two identical _twins_.

Lee had mentioned that a couple of Slytherins had shown up during the actual rebuilding. But this wasn't a couple, this was an army. Parkinson had wanted to hand Harry over to Voldemort, for Merlin's sake! What were they trying to do – pretend they hadn't been on Voldemort's side? Pretend they didn't have the Dark Mark in their minds if not on their forearms? Pretend they weren't Sly –

"You came," a voice said softly, dragging him from his thoughts. Angelina, quietly tiptoeing around him as usual. Why did he hate her so much for being so thoughtful?

"Maybe I shouldn't have."

"Lee would've kil – cursed you if you hadn't."

_Killed._ The unspoken word hung between them, begging to be acknowledged. George shrugged it off. "He did say something along those lines yesterday. I think his exact threat was strangling."

Angelina smiled. "Muggle duelling? I'm appalled. But then, his dad _is_..."

She stopped suddenly, remembering. George almost sighed. It was moments like this that made him want to throw himself off the newly rebuilt Astronomy Tower. Uncomfortable silences that always meant _death_. Lee's father had been a Muggle (which, he was sure, was what Angelina had been about to point out), and he'd been killed by Death Eaters shortly after his son had launched _Potterwatch_. No one really _knew_ if there was any connection between the two events, but that didn't stop Lee from going crazy with guilt over it whenever he got drunk.

Since the war, no one George knew was a fun drunk, and going out clubbing had become a preposterous idea.

"Talking about me?" Lee asked brightly, suddenly behind George.

When he wasn't drunk, Lee wasn't bad – almost his old self, except for the dreaded silences and the occasional chewing-outs (like the one that had persuaded George to come today). Angelina was much worse – _the_ worst, maybe, outside of his family. She was too quiet, too sad, too dead.

When Angelina blushed and didn't answer, Lee said, "I'm glad you came, mate."

"Seems like everyone did," George said. "If that _is_ Alicia I can see over there. The whole gang, huh?"

"Minus Katie," Angelina said quietly, and George felt a pang of guilt that he hadn't even spared a thought for Katie since the battle. He knew she'd been injured, but hadn't dwelt on it. Nearly two months after Fred's death, he was still too obsessed with his pain to think about anything else.

"How is she?"

"The Healers... they d – don't know if..." Angelina hiccuped.

"The Healers said that she might never wake up," Lee finished.

"She's in a coma?"

The look Lee shot him could have been anything from pity to anger. "Yes, she's in a coma. Bloody hell, George!" Definitely anger now. "One of your friends for years has been in a coma for over a month and you _didn't know_?"

"No one told me," George said defensively.

"You _knew_ she was injured. You were there when the... when she was hit."

Yes, and it had been horrible, a spell hitting the wall behind her, the stones crashing down around her, and then having to pull her unconscious body out of the rubble... He'd thought she was dead, but then she'd opened her eyes and smiled at him. And closed her eyes again. And now he knew they hadn't reopened since.

"If you could have brought yourself to _care_ about someone other than yourself for once, you'd have asked about Katie. You... shit, George. She might be in a coma for the rest of her life, and her friend has completely _forgotten_ about her!"

Lee, like everyone else, had started acting differently around George since the final battle. But his change had been in the opposite direction: instead of being quiet and gentle like Angelina, he'd become more rigid. Harsher. George knew he was trying to help, but it sure as hell was pissing him off. George didn't _want_ to be up and about, didn't _want_ to go on like nothing had happened.

"It's not like she cares, anyway," he shot back, thoroughly annoyed. "Seeing as she's _unconscious_."

Tears welled up in Angelina's eyes and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. And suddenly lost the soothing façade she'd been wearing around George until then. "Insensitive _git_," she said harshly. "Just because you lost a brother, that doesn't mean you're any more miserable than those of us who've lost friends, sisters, _mothers_ –" she glanced at Lee – "or fathers. You're clinging to your grief because you think you have more a right to it than we do. And you're forgetting everything and everyone else along the way. Do you know what that's called?"

"I don't care what it's called. If you think I'm insensitive, why don't you just leave me alone?"

"Because you'd end up killing yourself, that's why," Lee said tiredly. "Look, George. We _know_ you lost your twin. But you know what? Some of us lost more than that. I lost a father and one of my best friends. Another of my friends is in a coma, and a third might never be able to walk properly again, let alone play Quidditch."

"Funny," Alicia said from behind Lee, making him jump, "I don't recall the Healers saying anything about _Quidditch_."

George stared. It _was _her, curly dark hair and all, the same grin plastered on her face. Blue eyes laughing – was she really that happy to see them? Wearing Gryffindor-red robes that were, as always, tighter at the waist than most witches preferred. The only visible changes were the small scar on her temple and...

_Crutches._ He hadn't noticed that when he'd spotted her earlier. He sifted through his memories and remembered. Alicia had had her right leg crushed in the same explosion that had put Katie in her coma. Once again, George hadn't known it was serious. Broken bones weren't a big deal, but this...

Lee looked taken aback, too. "Alicia! George said he'd seen you, but... I didn't think..."

"The Healers say it's better I walk around a lot, and this _is_ an important event, you know." She shifted, putting more weight on her left leg than on her crutches, and looked at George as though she knew – and she probably did – that he had no idea what she had. "It's paralysed, but we're hoping it's only temporary."

Her gaze was insistent. Since the battle, George found he could class anyone in one of three categories: those who avoided looking directly at him because he reminded them of Fred, like his family, and those who stared at him like he was the tenth wonder of the wizarding world. The third category was Luna.

The tenth wonder... Yes, he could see that. George Weasley, the saint without an ear, the twin without his brother, the second half of something that didn't exist anymore.

"And, Lee, I'm _positive_ the Healers didn't say anything about Quidditch," Alicia said. "What think, George?"

"I can't wait to see you back on a broom," he said truthfully.

"I can't, either. I don't suppose _you_'ve done much flying this past month, have you? How have you – holy shit, is that _Malfoy_ I see over there?"

George whirled around, scanning the grounds. A part of him was eager to avoid the dreaded question everyone seemed to ask these days, _How have you been_, but an even greater part was genuinely concerned that a Malfoy could have dared to show up.

"Is it? Where?"

"Just kidding," Alicia said, grinning as he turned back to face her. "I figured you needed it. You look down in the dumps. Come on, smile at me – I'm a casualty of war!"

He cracked a smile at that – just for an instant. Then her use of the word "casualty" hit him and he remembered.

"Aw, hell," Alicia said, the grin fading from her face as George's expression went from amused to empty. "I'm really stupid, aren't I?"

"It's all right," George lied, then nodded towards the castle. "Let's go."

The grounds had been steadily emptying as everyone headed inside the castle. The celebration – a hundred speeches, a feast, two hundred more speeches, and something that Lee had described with a face as being "like a ball" – would take place inside the Great Hall. George had already decided he'd leave before the dancing started. The idea of dancing on the floor where so many bodies – _including Fred's_ – had been lain out during and after the last battle made him want to throw up.

Lee nodded and fell in step with him, but Angelina stayed behind, going at Alicia's pace. George was relieved to get away from them, especially Alicia who was too bright and cheerful. She was injured, maybe crippled for life; she had lost a friend, and she had been close to Katie, who was now in a coma – what right did she have to be so... _happy_? As he walked, George kicked at the ground. It wasn't fair. No one should –

Just then, he lifted his head and his gaze fell on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The Slytherins were moving camp, like everyone else – it was their billowing cloaks that had caught his attention. All except Zabini pulled their hoods over their heads – _Now what?_ George wondered. _Trying to be inconspicuous?_ They walked away from the forest, towards the brilliantly white monument that had been inaugurated the last time George was here. Then, one after another, they knelt in a row, facing away from George. After a few moments, they stood up, moved a few steps back, and stood like that.

When they finally moved away and started heading for the castle, George realized they'd been laying _flowers_ at the foot of the monument – which was really just an obelisk made of white marble inscribed with fifty-three names, and at the base of which were inscribed the words:

* * *

><p><em>Fortuna vitrea est; tum cum splendet frangitur.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Fortune is glass<em>, George had mentally translated the first time he read the words. _Just when it shines brightest, it shatters._ And it had made him think of Fred laughing as he died.

He felt an unexplainable rage rise in him at the sight of the Slytherins paying homage to the deceased – to _Fred_. It was somewhere between dignified outrage (how _dare_ they?) and disgust. His fist clenched.

"Some of them suffered, too," Lee said quietly, following George's gaze.

George didn't bother answering, preferring to simply speed up, leaving his friend behind. He had almost reached the door now, then he was inside the Entrance Hall and McGonagall was nodding at him to step into the Great Hall... and _then_.

Lee, appearing out of nowhere, grabbed his arm and drew him closer to him, steadying him. "Are you okay?"

"Dizzy spell," George muttered, pulling away. He looked around, feeling sick. "Merlin."

"Morbid, isn't it?"

"Not as morbid as burying people on the school grounds," a voice said from behind them. "Thank Merlin they spared the Quidditch pitch."

"Hi, Ginny," Lee said, smiling forcefully. "Nice to see you."

George hadn't seen his little sister in a few weeks, preferring to avoid anything vaguely resembling life. She'd stayed at the Burrow since the battle, which she had, against their mother's wishes, participated in and been one of the amazing few who'd gotten away without a scratch.

Sometimes George thought everything Ginny did was motivated by either of two things: showing her brothers better, or showing their mother better.

"Everyone was buried around the lake," Lee argued. "Except... well." Except Fred. "It's not like you can't walk around without stepping on a corpse."

"Whatever." Ginny nodded at her brother and gestured. "Fred's is over there, if that's what you're looking for."

It wasn't, and he shot her a glare for even thinking it. The plaque in the Forest and the memorial were enough of Fred – or rather, they weren't Fred at all. They commemorated Fred the dead hero, and that was the last thing he wanted to think of. But now Ginny had put the idea in his head, he couldn't help but want to see it.

_It_. The plaque. One of many which now papered the back wall of the Great Hall. Each was inscribed with a name and two dates, the second of which was the same for every plaque: 2nd May 1998.

"Maybe I should drop out and be like one of those Muggle homeless hippies," Ginny said musingly as she guided him closer to the wall. "Just the thought of eating in here every day makes me want to barf."

George stood, staring, at the wall. They seemed to be arranged in alphabetical order; Fred's was the last, at the bottom-right corner. It was almost a place of honour, because it was just above the -ht of the shimmering words on the wall: _To those who fought_.The plaque was smaller and more impersonal than the one outside, but that was normal – Luna hadn't seen it yet. In fact, not even the _family_ had been informed of it. It was made of a grey metal that was too dull to be silver and only wide enough to read the words:

* * *

><p><em>Fred Gideon Weasley<em>

_1st April 1978 – 2nd May 1998_

* * *

><p>George traced the words with his finger, wondering if he was going to cry. There was something about the plainness of the plaque, about the fact that it was one among fifty-three, that made is so much more heart-wrenching than the gold one outside. They had used his full name this time, accentuating the Gideon part of it – the part that recalled one of two brothers their mother had lost. Fred Gideon and George Fabian – whichever way you looked at it, two parts of one whole. Two <em>brothers<em>.

"Test, test." Harry's voice drew him from his thoughts and he turned around to face the stage. "Sorry. This is only the... the third time I cast this charm, and I wouldn't want to start talking with no one able to hear."

At least half the people gathered there smiled, which was when George realised just how much time had passed since he'd last been here. Only a month, but everything had changed in that month. More or less. The month before, everyone had been wearing black. Everyone had been crying. And no one had been listening.

Today, everyone was dressed in bright colours, everyone was smiling, and everyone had heard Harry's almost-joke. People were already healing – like Alicia, who was so bright and cheerful. They were moving on... forgetting. George felt extremely out of place.

"Though of course I'm not the first to speak," Harry continued. "That would be our respected Acting Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"I am going to be very brief," Kingsley said smoothly. "There isn't much to say. First, thank you all for coming. It is a gesture of love for both our lost ones and for Hogwarts, and also a gesture of solidarity. Second, thank you for helping. All of you – every single one of you here – helped rebuild Hogwarts. Some of you donated funds, others personally came here, camping on the grounds for days in a row just to straighten a painting put askew during the fighting. Yet others were with us in different ways – with their minds and hearts. Thanks to all of you, Hogwarts will re-open again in September. And special thanks to Miss Hermione Granger, whom you know was very dedicated to the task."

There was a short round of applause, and Hermione rose, blushing, and sat back down quickly. Kingsley said he was going to be brief, but the speech went on for a while longer, and then it was McGonagall's turn, and then George was being pushed toward a table.

He stared at the platters of food which had just appeared. Not long ago, he hadn't been eating at all. Then Lee had found him and shaken _that_ out of him. He'd found out that Lee could cook and that eating wasn't so bad. But he'd already eaten today; breakfast that morning. He wasn't hungry. Just the sight of everyone pigging out made him feel _sick_.

He sat back in his chair and stared into emptiness.

George tried to take his leave just before the new set of speeches could start, knowing it would be too much to bear. He could feel Lee's eyes boring into his back, reproachful and _hurt_, but he wouldn't, couldn't stay.

He bumped into someone on his way out.

"Sorry," he muttered, making to move away, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"No need to apologize," Luna said somewhat gravely. "You were probably tripped up by a Tornatod. They're quite mischievous, you know."

Luna. He couldn't resist the urge to grin (and he wouldn't have wanted to, anyway) at her words. This was what he loved about her. She could say the most inane things so seriously because she _believed_ in them, and she never took offence when he laughed. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it.

Just like everyone else, she looked better – happier – than she had the previous month, but he didn't resent her for it. Maybe because her version of happy had always been odd. She wasn't smiling, she wasn't laughing, she wasn't dancing. She was just... calm and solid and dreamy and unperturbed, everything George wished he could be.

"Can they be caught?" he asked in genuine interest.

"Well, they're invisible. But you can attract them with a really fluffy rug; they love them."

"Really? Have you ever caught one?"

She nodded. "It's always hard to know if they're really there, because you can't see them, but there are signs... The air around them goes slightly yellow, but you have to squint to notice it... and of course you can touch them, though they don't like that much. They bite." She paused. "I don't have the cloak."

"I don't need it."

"You're not going anywhere," she said, catching his wrist and bringing him closer to her. "You have to stay. I'm not saying the speeches are worth it," she added, "but you have to stop running away."

"Yeah, because I'd feel so much better if I hung around every time someone talked about my dead _twin_," George said harshly, wrenching his arm out of her grasp.

"Maybe you would," Luna said quietly, and he stared at her. "Maybe it would help you accept it. He's gone, George. You have to stop... killing yourself with him."

George recoiled like she'd hit him. "Just because, one time –"

"Yes, just because."

"I was drunk –"

"How does that make it any better?"

"It was just after –"

"I know."

"I'm not –"

"Yes, you are."

He looked away. "Maybe a little."

The music had started playing – Were the speeches over already? It was a sad, soft, and soothing melody, just what George _didn't_ need. Wizard rock would have been better; something to take his mind off _it_. Just like his friends, whoever had chosen the music either had no idea what he was doing or thought it would be fun to see people break down during a dance.

Luna let go of his wrist and instead grasped his hand gently, making to pull him toward the centre of the room where couples were already gently swaying. "You coming?"

His eyes reluctantly met hers. "I – I can't."

Luna waved her hand in the air dismissively. "Sure you can. Do you know –" she cocked her head at him – "do you know I wish I could be as brave as you?"

The way she could say such blunt things without blushing sometimes made George feel something fuzzy inside, something almost like happiness, but this time it just made him scoff.

"You're joking, right? What you did – you co-led Dumbledore's Army and you fought in more battles than I did. You _are_ brave."

She shook her head. "Your friends give you strength," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm actually rather jealous."

"I think the only reason I made Gryffindor was because of _him_."

"Wasn't," Luna countered, turning them around the dance floor surprisingly brutally.

"Was too," he said childishly, smiling.

"Was not."

"Was too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Not."

"Okay, okay. Not."

She smiled. "I win."

George stared at her. She was almost like a child sometimes, like she hadn't grown at all since her first year. He wondered if it was a shell she hid inside, a façade she put up to avoid facing reality. But Luna wouldn't do that, not while she was trying to make _him_ face the truth.

"Yeah," he echoed, twirling her around, "you win."

And he would have been happy – or as close to it as he could be, then and there – just doing that if the music hadn't suddenly stopped. McGonagall hastily clapped her hands together once, and all the dancers stopped to listen.

"A marvellous idea has just been suggested," she announced. "We were wondering if perhaps..." She seemed to collect herself. "All of you here know of Hogwarts. As a conclusion to the speeches made and to celebrate the rebuilding of our school, we – the staff – would like to ask you to join us in the Hogwarts song."

As one, all the teachers left the people they had been dancing with and came to stand beside McGonagall. And something seemed to change in the atmosphere. Everyone smiled, and in a single, united breath, the ones who had been to school at Hogwarts started singing and screaming the song they loved. Luna, by his side, was putting all her heart into it.

* * *

><p><em>Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,<strong><br>Teach us something please,**  
>Whether we be old and bald<em>

* * *

><p>"<em>Or young with scabby knees<em>," George whispered, hearing Luna echo his words seconds later. And then he raised his voice and changed his rhythm, slowing the song down to the funeral march he and Fred loved to use.

* * *

><p><em>Our heads could do with filling,<br>With some interesting stuff,  
>For now they're bare and full of air,<br>Dead flies and bits of fluff,_

* * *

><p>Everyone else had finished singing by now and had fallen silent. He wasn't sure whether they were listening to him or lost in thought.<p>

* * *

><p><em>So teach us things worth knowing,<br>Bring back what we've forgot,_

* * *

><p>Luna started swaying them again to imaginary music. Her light voice joined his for the final few words of the song.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Just do your best, we'll do the rest,<br>And learn until our brains all rot._

* * *

><p>There was a short burst of laughter from the other end of the room, and someone giggled close by. George, almost despite himself, smiled at Luna, who rested her head on his shoulder.<p>

He had forgotten what happiness felt like. Maybe this was a step toward it.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Hm...<strong>**

**** In all honesty, I'm not sure about this chapter. I mean, I like it. I think it's sweet and not-too-badly-written. I think it's the right length and I like everything that happens in it. But... I don't know. I think Luna unsettles me; whenever she comes up in a chapter I feel sure I'm doing it wrong, somehow. Thoughts?****

****Oh, and feel free to point out any typos. ****

**** And to review. ****


	8. Unreal

_Disclaimer:_Everything is JK Rowling's.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 8 <strong>**

****Unreal****

****31********st******** July, 1998****

* * *

><p>Like every morning, she woke up drenched in sweat, breathing hard. She didn't know who her dream had been about this time, and she didn't care to know. The nightmares that plagued her sleep were always practically identical. Only the victim changed. A flash of green light, her strangled scream, someone hitting the ground – <em>who<em>? That was the question she asked herself every morning when she woke up. Who had died, how many had died, who was next? In her dreams, she had relived Fred's death. She had seen Tonks, Lupin, and Colin Creevey die – and then her dreams had changed, and she had watched George, Ron, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Harry, Hermione, and Luna fall to the ground, lifeless. And then she had started dreaming about her own death, and somehow those nightmares had been more bearable.

No matter how many times she told herself that it was over, that they were safe now, she couldn't forget.

She had taken to casting _Muffliato_ around her room and locking the door with a charm that a simple _Alohomora_ couldn't get through, because her family had other things to worry about than her dreams. The day after she had done this for the first time, Crookshanks looked at her resentfully at breakfast, as though saying, "Why can't I sleep with you anymore?" but that was it. And besides, the night before that she'd unconsciously kicked Crookshanks out of the bed during her nightmare.

She sat up in her bed, dragged the back of her hand across her sweat-soaked forehead, and struggled to calm her breathing. In, out. In, out. In, _out_. In... _out_. The raggedness of her inspirations surprised her – for days there had been a pain in her chest which she knew was more mental than physical, but this was the first time it ever hindered her breathing.

Then she felt something that wasn't sweat roll down her cheek, and realised she was crying.

"Shit," she said, and blinked twice, _hard_. She hadn't cried once since the Final Battle. She knew that if she did, she would be lost. Once she started, she wouldn't be able to stop.

Her eyes dried up, and she almost sighed with relief. "Now, get up," she said aloud, and did.

This was another new habit. She found it easier to get about her day by giving herself these short, clear orders. Get up. Eat breakfast. Brush your teeth. Smile, now.

"Breakfast," she said, then quickly muttered the counter-spell to _Muffliato_ and unlocked her door.

She stepped into the hallway, thinking she would never get used to Grimmauld Place – and when would they go back to the Burrow? Why weren't they back home already? The house was big enough, and elegant, but she hated its dark austerity and the grim memories it held. Sirius had been unhappy here, and that unhappiness still clung to the very tapestries that hung on the walls.

She trailed her hand down the railing as she trudged down the stairs, her mind elsewhere. And when she reached the bottom, she nearly ran right into Hermione.

"Sorry, Ginny," Hermione said, offering a tense but genuine smile. "I wasn't watching where I was going. Have you just woken up?"

"Yeah," she said briefly.

"You're the last one," Hermione said, looking over her shoulder into the kitchen. "Almost everyone is in here – your mother and Percy are with George and your father is at work."

"Oh," Ginny said, then checked her watch.

It was six-thirty, and she was the last one awake. What had happened to Ron's constant sleeping in? To Molly having to wake them up personally, lest they sleep in all day? They were probably all haunted by nightmares – or, like George, they didn't sleep at all.

She followed Hermione into the kitchen and felt the atmosphere become heavier. The temperature might as well have dropped ten degrees from the chill she got just by setting foot in the room. Like Hermione had said, everyone was there, but no-one was talking. Everyone looked morose, unsmiling, and tired – not I-just-got-out-of-bed tired, but I'm-sick-of-this-life tired.

"Good morning," she said, forcing herself to sound bright and cheerful, and then she looked at Harry. "Happy birthday," she said gently, and her smile, for once, was sincere.

Harry looked surprised, but not that she had remembered his birthday. It was more like he himself had forgotten it was his birthday. The others looked confused, as though wondering that things like birthdays still existed. Hermione, who alone looked unfazed, grinned at Harry.

"Happy eighteenth, Harry."

"Yeah," Harry said, looking embarrassed. "Er – thanks, Ginny."

"You're welcome," she said, and blushed.

She couldn't see it, but she felt the heat creeping up her cheeks and looked away. His last birthday... exactly one year ago, they had shared their last kiss – and probably their best, too. Was he thinking about it? She looked back at him, and the look in his eyes said it all. She found she couldn't rip her gaze away from those bright green eyes, hollow and tortured now, but _his_ eyes nevertheless...

"Happy birthday, mate," Ron said, and she wrenched her eyes away, and her other brothers joined in the chorus.

"I have a present for you," she said in a lower voice, avoiding Harry's gaze. "Here you go. Not the best gift ever, but... it seemed useful, anyway."

She held it out to him. It was a small, rectangular-shaped parcel which she had wrapped in red paper and tucked into the pocket of her pyjamas before falling asleep so she wouldn't forget it the next morning.

Harry looked down at the wrapped parcel, then up at Ginny, and shook his head. "You didn't have to get me anything."

"Open it," she said firmly.

So he did, cautiously peeling back the brown canvas paper to reveal a small wooden box. There was a strange pattern on the top; some pieces of wood were golden, others were brown, still others were so dark they were almost black. It was a puzzle box, and she noticed the look of confusion on Harry's face.

"Er," he said. "Thanks. I didn't know these existed in the wizarding world."

Yes, the useful side of a puzzle box was doubtful in a world where a well-practised spell and a good wand were enough to blast open virtually anything.

"I bought it at a stall in Diagon Alley," she explained, "so I can't promise anything – everyone knows the stall vendors are a bunch of crooks –, but this guy didn't try to sell me an amulet to protect me from werewolves, so maybe it has potential. I can testify the Undetectable Expansion Charm is real, he demonstrated for me, but I don't know how long it'll last."

"Expansion Charm?" Harry repeated.

"You can put lots of stuff into it, stuff that normally wouldn't fit. The same thing Hermione cast on her beaded bag. This guy demonstrated with an autographed Quaffle he was also selling."

Harry looked at the box, which was really just a hollow slab of wood. It couldn't be more than six inches long, three wide and two deep.

"Wow," he said. "That's pretty cool."

"_If_ you can open it," Ginny said. "It's also supposed to resist to the usual charms – _Alohomora_ and pretty much anything meant to blast it open if it's simple enough –, but I haven't tested that yet."

Harry's arm snaked across the table and caught her wrist, pulling her slightly towards him. She looked up and their eyes locked, and then she was drowning in green again, deep, empty, bottomless green that looked at her so intensely she thought she would burst into flames.

"Thank you, Ginny," he said softly, and then let go of her arm.

The moment passed, and she looked away again. A sudden flutter at the window caught her eye, along with the noise of feathers flapping through the air. Four owls were there, tapping at the glass with their beaks, small envelopes tied to their legs.

"Oh," her mother said as she entered the kitchen, sounding flustered. "At this hour, really? Happy birthday, Harry – oh, Ginny, these are Hogwarts letters."

One of the owls hopped over to Ginny as soon as her mother had opened the window, and Ginny recognised the Hogwarts crest on the seal.

The other their owls made their way to Harry, Ron and Hermione. And while Harry went pale and Ron suddenly looked sick, Hermione's eyes shone when she realised what this was.

"We did it," she said, her voice sounding almost too happy. "We _did_ it! I didn't think – oh!"

Ginny knew what she meant. They had all been to the celebration for the rebuilding of Hogwarts and they had all witnessed the castle's miraculously swift restoration. Hermione had been more or less in charge of it. But it had all been surreal – changed, what with the plaques and graves all over the place, and too soon after the battle. None of them had really thought about going back to _school_. Ginny hadn't even been quite sure it would be possible, so soon after the castle's partial destruction.

When she opened her envelope with almost trembling hands, the first thing to fall out was a shiny, silver badge with a "C" engraved on it. She looked up in shock, but no-one was looking her way. Ron and Harry were still staring at their envelopes as though they might bite them, and Hermione was eagerly reading her letter.

Ginny silently pushed the badge into the back pocket of her jeans and unfolded her own letter:

* * *

><p><em>Dear Miss Weasley,<em>

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to repeat your sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It has been decided that last year's tuition was incomplete and will have to be repeated for all students. The list of textbooks for this year remains the same. Additionally, you have been chosen as Quidditch Captain for your house this year._  
><em>Term begins as usual on September 1. Due to unexpected happenings, the sending of this letter was delayed. As such we await your owl by no later than August, 10th.<em>

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_  
><em>Headmistress<em>

* * *

><p>She put the letter down and once more scanned the others' reactions. Harry looked more grey than white now, and Hermione was looking at Ron almost... warily? Ginny looked down at the envelope still in her hands and drew out three other pieces of paper. The first was the list of textbooks and required equipment in case she had forgotten since the previous year. The third was a sort of form to fill out, which spiked her interest – but not as much as the third paper, an official-looking letter at the top left-hand corner of which the insignia of the Ministry was inked in.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Attn: Ginevra Molly Weasley<em>

_ By the present letter and in accordance with the law of July 2__nd__, 1998, the Ministry of Magic would like to inform you of a change in procedure. The newly-voted law invites all Hogwarts students over seventeen years of age as of September 1__st__, 1998 and having participated in the Battle of Hogwarts to enter Auror training at the Ministry. Wizards and witches will not need to present their scores on OWLs, NEWTs or other exams to apply. _

_ Please let us know of your intention to apply before August, 21__st__ by sending an owl with the following form, completed in black ink, at the Ministry for Magic, Auror Department. _

_ Education Minister Persephone Daleson_

_ Read and approved by: Interim Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt_

* * *

><p>Ginny glanced up at Harry as soon as she had read the last word of this letter. He was holding his and staring at it like he couldn't quite believe his eyes. She knew, then, that he would agree. He wouldn't be going back to Hogwarts; there was no way he could, after what had happened there. He would achieve his dream and become an Auror, even though Voldemort was dead now. And he wouldn't come back to her.<p>

Why did it bother her so much? She was the one who had decided on the split.

Across from her, Hermione had come to the same conclusions. "You're not coming back, are you?" she said, something like reproach and dismay in her tone.

But she wasn't talking to Harry.

"I'm sorry."

Ron was looking steadily at Hermione. Ginny wouldn't have gone as far as saying that his eyes were shining or anything like that, but he looked both pleased and determined.

Hermione shook her head. "Your education –"

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

She looked startled for a moment, then nodded slowly in grudging acceptance. "Fine," she said, not sounding like it was at all fine. "Fine."

And she stood up and fled from the room.

"Tactless," Ginny said, her eyes on the door. "You two won't last long if you keep acting like that."

"Like what?"

"I'm going to find Hermione," Ginny said abruptly, not wanting to hear Harry talk about never going back to Hogwarts.

And she left the room, ignoring her mother's indignant: "Ginny, your breakfast!"

Hermione had not gone far. She was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, cradling her head in her hands. She wasn't crying, but Ginny could tell she was seriously considering it. She sat down next to her friend and was silent.

"It feels so unreal," Hermione said. "I think I understand him, because even I can't imagine... it just feels so strange to think of going back to _school_, after all that has happened."

"Unreal," Ginny repeated.

She wished it _were_ unreal. She wished none of this had _really_ happened.

"I know he'll go," Hermione said, her voice sounding very distant even though she was just next to her. "I think I always knew. It's not like he ever liked studying. But... it still hurts." She lifted her head a little and glanced sideways at Ginny. "You and Harry –"

"Are over," she said firmly.

"You still love him," Hermione said quietly.

"It doesn't matter. He's changed. But Ron and you – since when?"

"The battle," Hermione said, looking down at her hands. "It just happened, you know? I've liked him for a long time. But since –" she glanced up at Ginny again – "since Fred died, he hasn't been the same. I've been giving him space, you know? But it isn't enough."

"He just needs time."

"I know," she said. "Time apart from me."

"It isn't that."

"It is, though," she insisted. "He needs to spend time with you – his family. So I – I'm going back to Hogwarts, of course. And he's staying here."

Ginny reached out and covered one of Hermione's hands with hers. "I'm going back, too."

"You are?"

Ginny nodded, then gave a little half-laugh and reached into the back pocket of her jeans. "I've been made Captain of the Quidditch team," she said, showing her friend the badge.

"Oh, Ginny," Hermione said, giving her a genuine smile. "That's fantastic."

Ginny smiled back.

And burst into tears.

Without hesitating, Hermione wrapped her arms around her and held her closely. "Oh, Ginny. It's okay," she murmured senselessly. "It's going to be okay."

"I miss him," Ginny babbled, not knowing who she meant - Fred, or Harry? "I miss him, I miss him..."

"Shh," Hermione said soothingly. "I know you do."

"I can't believe he's gone," she cried into Hermione's shoulder, her words muffled by her friend's jumper. "I miss him so much... Why did he leave?"

Hermione held her tighter. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I really don't know, Ginny. But believe me, Ginny..."

The steel in her friend's voice made Ginny look up. Hermione's eyes were brimming with tears, but her smile was sincere.

"He'll be back."

* * *

><p><strong><strong>And there we have it. Probably my least favourite chapter, so I'm just glad it's over with. I felt like I had to include it, but I don't particularly like the way I went about it. Something seems off. <strong>**

****To make up for it, there's a second chapter coming up soon, later today or maybe tomorrow... and Draco's in it.  
><strong>**


	9. Black and White

** Okay, so this is a very short chapter – only a scene, really. But I thought it was important and I really wanted to include something about Draco's wand... I always wondered about it, anyway.**

_Disclaimer:_ Not mine, never will be. Harry Potter is JK Rowling's.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

**Black and White**

**14th August, 1998**

* * *

><p>The gate was made of wrought iron, which surprised him.<p>

His memories of the manor were vague at best – he remembered all that had happened, but had been in such a state of panic that the background was a blur. He had expected something like gold or at the very least silver, possibly encrusted with ridiculously expensive gemstones. It was still fancy, though, with branches of iron coiling around at the top and ending in sharp spikes. The result was a sort of gloomy arch that somehow reminded Harry of a cathedral.

Then the gate spoke through a mouth that had suddenly appeared, which jolted him out of his thoughts. "And who are you?"

It was surprisingly polite for a manor's gate; over the past couple weeks he'd come across some downright snobs. Kingsley had him practically going door-to-door to Death Eaters' houses, which were most often mansions, looking for Dark Artefacts. Talking gates were, apparently, a good way to keep people from entering.

He reached out, touching the cold bars. They were solid enough, which meant he wasn't allowed to pass through. Predictable.

"Harry Potter," he said, taking his hand back.

"State your purpose."

Well, maybe it was a snob, after all.

"I want to speak with..." He hesitated. "With Draco Malfoy."

"I will pass on the message." The gate fell silent. After a moment, it swung open. "You may pass through."

There was an elf waiting on the other side, and something like both anger and sadness surged through him at the sight of the creature. The Malfoys still had a house-elf? Hadn't Dobby been the only... _Dobby._

"My name is Dippy, sir," the elf squeaked. "Master says I am to escort you to the third drawing room."

_The third?_ Harry thought with a wry smile. Was Malfoy Manor really that big?

"Thank you, Dippy," he said sincerely, and followed the elf as he led him up the drive, up some steps, and into a wide hallway he could dimly recall, one lined with portraits.

Then Dippy opened a door to the left, which led to a smaller, longer hallway. Tapestries decorated the walls, depicting unicorns, dragons, and winged horses. And then there were too many twists and turns and steps for Harry to know where he was. Malfoy Manor was something like a maze.

Finally, though, Dippy stopped in front of a door, slightly out of breath, bowed to Harry, and said, "It is here, sir."

"Thank you," Harry said again.

The elf Disapparated and Harry stood there for a moment, looking at the door, half-wanting to run away and pretend he'd never come. No one would be the wiser; he wasn't here on official duty, anyway. Though the elf had been sent by Malfoy himself, so –

The door swung open.

"Potter."

"Malfoy."

Malfoy stepped aside to let him in, and Harry looked at him curiously. His arms were folded over his chest defensively, and he was looking straight at Harry, chin slightly jutted out in defiance. There were light circles under his eyes, and his robes hung around him loosely. He was even paler and thinner than the last time Harry had seen him, which was saying something. At the Ministry, during his trial, he had already looked terrible.

The trial in which Harry had taken his side, which had made front-page news the next day.

"I don't suppose I need to ask you what you're doing here," Malfoy said icily.

"Actua –"

"We're grateful."

Harry stared. "I'm sorry?"

"Thank you, Potter, that meant thank you!" Malfoy snapped, and Harry noticed the ever-present drawl was gone. "For saving my life _twice_, for saving the bloody _world_ from the Dark Lord, for getting us out of Azkaban! Thank you, all right?"

Harry laughed, and Malfoy glared at him.

"No – seriously? You think I came to _gloat_?" Harry paused. "If anything, _I_ should be thanking your mother. She didn't do it for me, but _she_ saved _my_ life, you know. Lied to Voldemort and all. For you."

"Of course I know!" Draco had gone even paler at Voldemort's name. "I remember the trial as well as you do. And – and how did you survive the curse, anyway?"

Harry paused. Wizards were almost ridiculously superstitious, and death wasn't something to be toyed around with. If he admitted he had, in a way, come back from the dead...

"I don't know."

"Like hell you don't. You said that, too, during the trial – I know you lied."

"And it served, didn't it?" Harry shot back, riled up in the way that only Malfoy could make him be. "You can continue to live your glorious life in your glorious mansion –"

"My life is anything but _glorious_, Potter."

They glared at each other for a few moments, then Malfoy relented and said, "Fine. What are you here for, then?"

"Well, like I said, your mother –"

"If you wanted to thank her, you would have asked to see her, not me."

"I feel more at ease with you," Harry admitted. "I know you."

"You don't."

"I do," Harry insisted. "And that's not the only reason I came."

He drew out a wand, seeing Malfoy flinch and step back at the sudden move. The idiot had misinterpreted his gesture, though Harry was pleased to see he hadn't tried anything. Maybe Malfoy was changing. Or maybe he realised cursing the Saviour was not a good idea, or maybe he _didn't have his wand_.

Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, almost without noticing it. "It's yours, you dolt. It worked just fine for me, but I still prefer my own. I figured you'd want it back."

"Back – oh." Malfoy looked at the wand again and, after a few seconds, nearly wrenched it out of Harry's hand.

"Yeah," Harry said, appraising him as he twirled the wand around in his fingers. "Does it, you know, feel right?"

"Feel – yeah. Yeah, it does." Malfoy was still staring at his wand as though he could hardly believe it. "It _is_ mine."

"Yeah."

"I couldn't..." His voice trailed off and his eyes took on a sort of faraway look; for the first time, he seemed to let his guard down, as though he had forgotten who he was speaking to. "I'm glad. I couldn't get a new one, you see – it wouldn't feel right to – and besides, it's not like anyone would have made one for me. Willingly, I mean."

Harry said nothing.

"It's... different. The link feels strange. Weakened, I suppose, but it's better than using... my mother's."

"Ah. Yes. Ollivander – well. I took the wand from you, so... its allegiance transferred to me, technically. But it _is_ your wand, and I thought that if I gave it back..."

Malfoy said nothing for a moment, though he seemed to tense up again. Harry wished he hadn't mentioned the _taking your wand_ part. It was only begging for awkwardness.

"You know," Malfoy said slowly, "I told Dippy to take you here because the main drawing room is where it happened."

Harry looked into space. He didn't need to ask what _it_ was. "Yeah... thoughtful of you, but I don't remember it all that clearly."

"Lucky you," Malfoy said, the drawl suddenly back again.

"Hardly." Harry paused. "I'm sorry."

Malfoy looked taken aback. "What for?"

"The... Our sixth year."

"You mean when I got the Death Eaters into Hogwarts? I'm sorry, too."

"Not that." Harry looked at the floor. There was a fancy rug lying at his feet, representing snakes and dragons fighting against a wizard. "The curse. Sectumsempra. When I found you..." _Crying._ "You could have died."

Malfoy laughed, which made Harry glance back up at him, surprised. He wasn't sure he had ever seen Malfoy laugh. It was a nice change. It sounded slightly bitter, but there was something else in his expression now, disbelief and definite amusement.

"Potter, I was about to throw an Unforgivable at you. I don't think you're supposed to apologise for not letting me torture you."

"I... It was wrong, though."

"Still hung up on that? Right and wrong, black and white... Grow up, Potter. Look around you and tell me if you can see a single person who's a hundred percent good or bad."

Harry smiled. "Well, I can't, but then, there's only you in this room."

"And you," Malfoy pointed out. "I was wrong. Behold the wonder of the wizarding world, the hundred-percent good Harry Potter."

"I'm not... Merlin, I nearly killed you! That's not 'good!'"

"I don't count," Malfoy said breezily. "I'm bad, remember?"

"You _aren't_," Harry said adamantly. "Or you'd be in Azkaban right now."

"I've been."

"And I'm sorry about that," Harry said truthfully. "I would have got you out earlier, but... I didn't know. I really didn't know – I thought I'd be warned when there was a hearing –"

"There are no hearings for Death Eaters," Malfoy said bitterly. "No trials. Directly carted off to Azkaban, and they deal with the paperwork when they've got the time."

"There was a trial," Harry corrected.

"Yes, two months after the battle. Two months in bloody _Azkaban_, Potter. And the first month – _Salazar_. They only kicked the Dementors out in June. It was... I thought I was going to..." Malfoy trailed off and was silent for a moment. "While we're on uncomfortable subjects, I suppose I should thank you. Properly, this time." He looked Harry in the eye. "For what happened in the Room of Requirement, during the battle. You saved my life. And then again, later – that was you, right?"

"The two-faced bastard, you mean?" He could feel the corners of his lips twitching. "Yeah, that was us – me and Ron. He's the one who punched you, by the way. I only stunned the Death Eater."

"I'll be sure to remember that the next time I see Weasley." Malfoy almost looked like he was about to smile, but then the moment was gone and he was frowning. "Thank you."

Welcome back, awkwardness. "You're welcome."

"You're an Auror now, right?"

"I'm going to enter training in September, yeah."

"Not going back to Hogwarts?"

"Not if I can help it. Are you?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I... I don't know. I didn't finish my seventh year, and with the Carrows teaching we didn't learn much anyway, but... I have a feeling it would be hard. And it's not like anyone's going to offer me a job, so what's the point?"

"You don't –"

Malfoy met his gaze evenly. "We both know it's the truth."

"Yeah... maybe," Harry said unwillingly. "I... suppose I better go now, then."

"I suppose so."

"And... Thank your mother for me, will you?"

Harry could feel Malfoy's eyes drilling a hole – ten thousand holes – into his back as he left the room.

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><p><strong>Please review; as Draco has become one of my favourite characters, this is one of my favourite chapters. What about you?<strong>


	10. This Is Where We Belong

**Three updates this week-end because it's Easter week-end so I have three days, and because Tuesday's my birthday.**_  
><em>

_Disclaimer:_ **JK Rowling's.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

**This Is Where We Belong**

**17th August, 1998**

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><p>"I'm going to Australia."<p>

If she had expected Harry to be surprised, or maybe to leap up and say, "Hermione, you can't go now, you're needed here," then she was disappointed. Instead, he glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, pushed his glasses further up his nose, and said:

"For your parents?"

She nodded.

"You don't seem too happy about it," he said, putting the newspaper down and looking more closely at her. "Is everything all right?"

She laughed a little and instantly regretted it. Harry hadn't missed the bitter undertone to her laugh and a shadow passed over his face.

"Stupid question, right?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "I appreciate it. I'm okay," she lied.

"Well, something's up, anyway."

"I..." She hesitated. "It's nothing, really. Just, would you come with me?" Harry didn't reply, and she rushed her next words. "It'll only take a moment – just Apparating there, you know – I don't mean for you to stay during the actual move, because, you know, planes are slow –"

"Okay."

She stared. "Really?"

"Okay," Harry repeated, grinning and pushing his chair back. "Get a bit of fresh air, see kangaroos and great white sharks, and flirt with hot Australian birds – how could I say no?"

The smile he gave her lightened up his face and eased the seemingly permanent crease from his brow. Though nothing except undisturbed sleep could erase the dark circles under his eyes, the way the light danced in his irises as he grinned made him look healthier and happier than he had a minute ago.

"Idiot," she said, swatting him on the arm. "We'll be Apparating directly to my parents' house, so none of that."

"Fine, fine," Harry said, ducking away and laughing. "I meant, how could I say no to my best friend since our first year? Of course I'll come, Hermione – are you leaving right now?"

"Well, that's what I was planning – unless you need some time to prepare or something?"

"I'm thinking a camera could come in handy... I'm joking, Hermione! I'm ready. Um... You didn't ask Ron, right?"

The now-familiar pain jabbed at her insides and she almost winced. _Ron._ No, she hadn't asked him. She had thought about it, of course – she had _wanted_ him to come. And he had wanted it, too. In the tent, during their hunt, he had woken up to hear her crying, and he had said – he had said...

_"They're safe, Hermione. You made the right choice. They're alive and safe and happy, thanks to you, and you'll see them again soon."_ Then he had added, softly, _"I'll come with you."_

But of course, now that Fred was dead, the idea of taking another Weasley away from the family, even for just a few days, or even a couple of hours, was impossible. She had barely _seen_ Ron since the Battle, let alone had the chance to speak about her own family.

"No," she said, and the hardness in her tone surprised her. "I mean, no, I didn't," she said, softening her voice. "I didn't think it would be fair."

Harry nodded like he understood. Which was good, because she wasn't sure she did. The silence stretched out until Hermione held out her arm and said:

"Let's go."

Harry winced. "I _hate_ Apparating. And isn't Apparating to a different continent dangerous?"

"It's actually illegal, but trust me on this, Harry," she said, her voice tinted with slight annoyance. "I know what I'm doing."

He smiled at her. It was a wide, genuine smile that she hadn't seen in such a long time that she felt like crying. It was the smile he had given her when they'd first became friends, after winning the battle against that troll in their first year. It was the smile she had seen on his face when he'd won a Quidditch match against Slytherin, when Sirius had wanted him to move in with him, and when he had kissed Ginny for the first time.

"You always do," he said.

He grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and Hermione Disapparated them away.

_I know what I'm doing_, she had said, but actually she hadn't. She had looked it up in books, and the only major difference she had been able to find between intra-country Apparition and inter-continent Apparition was the level of concentration needed. Horrible Splinchings had happened, but she was confident enough in her abilities. That is, until she felt the familiar tug of Apparition that was suddenly ten times worse than usual.

Through experience, Hermione had learned to be able to breathe during Apparition and usually found the discomfort minimal. But this was something else. It was more uncomfortable, more sickening, and more wild, like being sucked into the smallest football ever and having everyone proceed to toss and kick you about. And it was longer, too; Apparition was usually almost immediate, but this lasted for at least a minute.

When they were finally choked out of the football, Harry staggered forward three steps, doubled over, and threw up in a freshly-trimmed hedge.

"Hermione, this is the last time I'll ever trust you," he managed to say as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "_Ugh._"

Hermione was in slightly better shape, but only slightly. Her throat was on fire, as though she'd spent the last minute screaming – which, she realised, was probably what had happened. The nauseous feeling nestled in the pit of her stomach seemed more tenacious than usual, and she was going to give in if it didn't go away quickly.

"Ugh," she agreed, sitting down to calm her dizziness and nausea, her hand automatically rising to her throat. "I think I'm going to throw up."

"Join the club," Harry said. "You've never done this before, have you?"

"Now I have. Any body parts missing?"

"None than I can see, but I think I may have lost ten years of my life. And I'll be flying back with your parents. By plane. Definitely." Harry looked around. "Nice house. Is it your parents'?"

"Yes."

It w_as_ a nice house, she supposed, but then, it was a nice neighbourhood. Like all the other houses, it was single-storey, small, and white, with a darker, tiled roof. The door and shutters were painted a sunny yellow. The garden was neat and tidy, with hedges and a fence all around, and Hermione remembered there was a small pool behind the house.

"So, do we knock?" Harry asked, and she realised she had been silent for a long moment.

"We ring, actually," she said, stepping forward to the door.

She stopped with her finger a centimetre from the doorbell and couldn't bring herself to press it. Behind this door were the parents she hadn't seen in months – an entire year, now. Before leaving on her hunt for the Horcruxes with Harry, she had forced them to close their dentist's cabinet, relocated them to a country they had never even thought of visiting, and worst of all, erased all their memories of her and of themselves. But even that could have been forgiven, if she hadn't known she was deliberately going against their wishes.

_"No, Hermione,"_ her father had said when she had asked – no, _begged_ – them to go in hiding. _"If you feel like you have to leave, then we understand. But your mother and I aren't going anywhere."_

_"Hermione,"_ Marissa Granger had added, _"We have a life here. We have a house, jobs, and a wonderful daughter. This is where we belong."_

After two weeks of incessant pleading on her part and unyielding stubbornness on her parents', Hermione had finally drawn her wand and modified her parents' memories.

She would never forget the look on her mother's face when she had realised what her daughter was doing, seconds before she couldn't even remember who she was. It hadn't been surprise, or shock. It had been pure fury. And Hermione didn't want to see that look again.

Suddenly, Harry was behind her, one arm around her waist, the other on her outstretched hand.

"This is what we came for," he said softly. "Let's do it."

And he gently pressed forward, twice in rapid succession. They faintly heard the two trills from behind the door, and Harry backed away and let go of her hand.

"No," she said quickly, lacing her fingers through his. "Stay with me."

And then the door opened.

It was her father, she realised with a mixture of relief and disappointment. She couldn't help but crane her neck to try to spot her mother, but she wasn't there. Cold fear settled in the pit of her stomach; she had never known her mother not to come to the door to answer the doorbell. Her father should have been watching television right now, feet kicked up on the table, and calling out to ask his wife who was at the door.

"Hello," her father said instead, his voice somewhere between confused and cheerful.

He looked good, both happy and healthy, his skin swarthy and tanned, his smile genuine. She could have screamed with joy over this small fact, but she repressed it. Instead, she felt an answering smile spread across her face.

"Hello," she replied. "Mr. Wilkins?"

"Can I do something for you?"

"We'd like to talk to you for a moment, if it's all right," she said. Now came the lie. "We work for a branch of the British Health Services located here in Australia. It's about your mother, Wendy Gran – Wilkins."

Her father frowned, looking concerned. Hermione's grandmother was the sweetest woman ever, but she was nearing eighty years old and she had heart problems. She had also, at least before Hermione left, been in remission after a worrying cancer.

"My mother? Is she all right? Has something happened?"

"It's a little delicate," she lied smoothly. "Maybe we could go inside?"

"Yes, of course," he said, then seemed to rethink it. "If you don't mind my saying so, you look a bit young for this sort of work."

"I'm not a doctor," she said, smiling innocently. "Just a secretary." She handed him a false card that verified her words. "I wasn't able to call you, so I decided to come here directly."

He nodded, his suspicions fading. "Yes, the lines have been down since yesterday. Not that we ever need the phone, but it is a little annoying. Do come in."

He led the way inside, through a narrow corridor and into a small but fresh living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture, a sofa, an armchair and a wide television screen. The armchair was occupied by a woman with golden-brown hair who had her head bent over a book.

Her mother.

"Monica," her father said, and Hermione was drawn back to reality by the strange, alien name. "These people are from the British Health Services."

"Monica" looked up and smiled warmly, and Hermione drew in a sharp breath and dimly felt Harry's fingers tighten around hers. Her mother had... changed.

Her hair was slightly longer, or maybe it only seemed that way because she had let it down instead of pinning it up the way she always used to before going to work. Her feet were curled up beneath her on the armchair, something she had never let her daughter do. She wore a loose summer dress that Hermione had never seen before, with a dark red shawl thrown over her shoulders. August was winter in Australia, although it hadn't been all that cold outside.

Beneath the flowery pattern of her dress, the curve of her mother's swelling stomach was more than visible.

Harry squeezed Hermione's hand again, leaned over and whispered, "I think now would be a good moment."

Hermione nodded and, with trembling fingers, drew out her wand, angling it so it was hidden by the potted plant she was standing next to.

"You see," Harry began, "Yesterday, your mother..."

Hermione stopped listening to Harry's on-the-spot lie and focused on the spell. She had to whisper the counter-charm so her parents wouldn't hear and because the non-verbal version wouldn't be powerful enough. The words caught in her throat before she forced them out, then rolled off her tongue with practised ease. Harry stopped mid-sentence as twin expressions of awe, then complete blankness took over Hermione's parents' faces. She reached the end of the spell, sighed, and relaxed her grip on her wand.

Her parents blinked, twice. They looked at each other in confusion. And then:

"HERMIONE!" Lisa Granger shrieked as she threw herself at her daughter.

Harry backed away, letting Hermione's mother draw her into a deep hug. Hermione hesitated, then hugged back.

"Mum," she whispered.

"Hermione, Hermione, Hermione," her mother kept repeating. "Oh, how _could_ you?"

She flinched. There it was: the accusation. What she had done... how could it ever be forgiven?

"We've missed you so," her mother said, and when she pulled away, Hermione was shocked to see the tears sliding down her cheeks. "Oh, _Hermione_!"

"I'm sorry," she said, horrified. Her mother _never_ cried. "I'm so so sorry, and I know you didn't want to, but –"

"But you had to do what you felt was right," her father finished for her.

She turned to him, and was surprised to see he was grinning at her.

"We love you, Hermione," he said, reaching out to push a strand of hair behind her ear. "And you have a lot to explain. But right now – right now I just want to enjoy this moment for as long as I can." He cocked his head. "Since you've come back, I suppose all went well?"

"Not exactly," she admitted. It had been an even rougher ride than what she had been expecting. "But we found what we were looking for, and Voldemort is dead. It was..." She swallowed. "They're calling it the Second Wizarding War."

"Oh, Hermione," her mother said again, like she would never tire of saying her name. "I can't believe you wanted to go through that on your own!"

"I wasn't alone," she said.

"Well, yes, of course not," her father said, nodding at Harry. "But your mother didn't mean it that way."

"I'm sorry," Hermione repeated. "I really am." She looked around. "Have you... Were you at least happy here?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Very. Safe and happy – that was what you wanted, wasn't it? Oh, and we're expecting a baby."

"I saw," she said calmly, because the news was suddenly less shocking now she had her parents back. "What is it? When is it due?"

"It's another girl," her mother said in a suddenly cold tone. "We were thinking of calling her Hermione, you know."

"Oh."

"She should be born mid-October," she went on, her voice and expression softening. "As penitence, I expect you to start thinking of a name." She laughed. A strange expression suddenly crossed her face, and she took Hermione's hand and placed it on her stomach. "Can you feel it?" she whispered.

Yes, Hermione could feel it. She could feel the baby kicking. She could feel the life growing inside her mother's belly. And she wanted only one thing for this little girl, her _sister_. She wanted her to grow up in a better, safer world.

And she really, really hoped she would be a Muggle.

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><p><strong>Major AU here you'll be telling me. But hey, it doesn't exactly disregard the Epilogue, does it? It's definitely not canon, but it works, and I liked it. I honestly started out with no idea about this, but as I was describing Mrs Granger (whom I was tempted to go into great detail about, for some reason), the words "curve" and "swelling stomach" just appeared on the page (screen).<strong>

** I like it.**

**Next chapter coming up.  
><strong>


	11. Why Lee Became an Auror

**I couldn't seem to find a complicated, dark, thoughtful, evoking, romantic title for this one. **

**Also, let's clarify a couple things here, for those readers I've been leading on up until... now. **

**○ 1) This is eventual Dramione. (Hey, what did you expect? I love this ship.)  
><strong>

**○ 2) It is epilogue-compliant. Though it invents pretty freely on lots of stuff, it doesn't _technically_ go against what was said in the epilogue. I mean, Draco and Hermione don't get married (too young... bleh)._  
><em>**

**The two are not mutually exclusive, I assure you. I decided that the best way to give everyone closure was to give closure to Hermione and Draco, probably my two favorite characters. I started off on friendship and it turned to romance without my consent, though I certainly didn't protest. This fic is only about the first year after the war and it's Dramione, not Ronmione. So sue me. I didn't mess too badly with the other pairings, I promise.  
><strong>

_Disclaimer:_ **It's all Rowling's.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 11<br>Why Lee Became an Auror**

**August 21st**

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><p>"Snap out of it, George," he said as he took a sip of the too-hot coffee.<p>

He shifted the mug from his right to his left hand, trying not to let his irritation show. Heating Charms weren't his forte, and this one he had miscalculated. It didn't help that he had always hated the taste of coffee, hated especially the insipid flavour of instant-powder coffee. George knew this, of course.

"At six in the evening?" he asked, nodding at the mug.

"It helps," he said shortly, and George nodded.

_It helps_ was his all-around excuse for pretty much anything these days. It worked. Recently, George had taken to using it as well, although he hadn't commented on it.

"Give," George said, holding his hand out. He took the burning mug unflinchingly and took a sip, then made a face. "Too bitter."

"You think so?" he asked, taking the mug back and looking at it. "Feels tasteless to me."

"You've probably burned off the last of your taste buds with it."

"That would explain it."

"Hey, Lee..." George said suddenly.

"Still thinking about The Letter, are you?" Lee asked.

They had all received It. All those who had stood and fought. The youngest had got It with their Hogwarts letter; he had had a more elegantly phrased, lengthier one. It was definitely not Kingsley's writing; he had met Kingsley thanks to _Potterwatch_, and he didn't speak like that. The form had been just that, a formality, and Lee had filled it out in five minutes and owled it back in ten.  
>George had stared at his Letter like it was a poisonous snake until It had spontaneously combusted, making Lee jump. George's magic had become unreliable lately, like a seven-year-old's. He couldn't seem to control it; he hadn't used his wand in weeks, and occasionally strange things would happen. Lee put it down to grief and had tried to understand, but Angelina had soon put things straight – George had to see a specialist if they didn't want to have the shop and flat turn into a pile of charred toothpicks. He had been seeing Morgana Pratchett for three weeks now. Practchett was Muggle-born and a self-proclaimed magical psychiatrist, a profession not really recognised in the wizarding world. She had been recommended by Hermione, and George had gone along with it, recognising Hermione's usual perspicacity... but in this case, the witch had made a blatant mistake.<p>

Lee had met Pratchett, who generously came over to the flat for her sessions with George rather than having him come to an office Lee suspected didn't exist. She was a quiet, intelligent-looking woman with blond hair pulled back into a strict bun and square glasses that did nothing to soften the angles of her face. Lee couldn't deny that she was a smooth talker and sharp-witted, but there was nothing about her that suggested she might be good at helping others to deal with things such as what George was going through. She was too serious to be of any use to his friend, and too indelicately nosy. She pried and asked questions that left George more bruised than he had been to start with. But she seemed efficient at calming his bouts of uncontrolled magic, at least. During their last session, Lee knew they had talked about The Letter. It was always on George's thoughts.

"Yes," George said. "But not for the reasons you might think. I know I won't accept."

"I'm glad you reached a decision."

"I was thinking about _you_."

Lee's fingers tensed around the mug. He forced himself to relax his muscles and stared at the black coffee.

"Oh?" he said, trying to sound casual.

"I've known you for years, Lee, and you _never_ showed any sign of interest in law enforcement," George said, not to be fooled by faked casualness. "You never wanted to be an Auror before. Heck, you never even liked Defense Against the Dark Arts apart from the year Lupin taught it!"

"And Moody," Lee pointed out, swigging back a mouthful of coffee and almost gagging as it burnt his throat. "He was an Auror –"

"He was a nutter disguised as an Auror," George corrected him.

"Still. It got me thinking –"

"Cut the crap, Lee," George interrupted him. "I may be crazy enough to need a psychiatrist but that doesn't mean I'll fall for your lies any more easily than I used to when we were at Hogwarts. Truth. _Now._"

Lee swirled the coffee around in the cup. "Look –"

"And _look_ at me when you're speaking."

He met his friend's eyes for a second, then looked away. It was just too painful. Everything that was George had once been reflected in Fred. Now, without that mirror, George was only a shadow of himself. Or maybe it was his own loss Lee was feeling. Maybe he felt the pain of Fred's absence so acutely that he was imagining things. Either way, he couldn't properly look at George without seeing Fred, and that hurt like hell.

"Lee," George said, his voice managing to crack on the single syllable. "Please..."

"I have Firewhiskey," Lee said abruptly, standing up. "In a cupboard somewhere –"

"Lee," George said again. "Sit down."

"It helps."

"I don't care!" he snapped. "Just sit down and _look at me_."

Slowly, Lee sat back down. And looked at George, really looked at him, for maybe the first time since the battle.

He had lost weight. A lot of it. There were dark circles under his eyes, which stood out in stark contrast with his pasty skin. His eyes were dull and lifeless. He couldn't have looked less like himself if he tried, but despite it all, he still looked too much like _Fred_.

Lee looked away again, blinking furiously.

"I _hate_ him," he spat. "He took two of my best friends from me. He killed Fred and he... damaged you. And I can't stop thinking that maybe..." He swallowed. "During the battle, I fought him. Rookwood. I duelled him, and I _lost_. He blocked everything I sent him and he almost killed me. He _did_ kill the girl who was fighting with me. I didn't even know her name – but I couldn't protect her. I backed off and I – I let him pass."

Was it blame or indifference in George's cold, cold eyes?

"It's my f – fault." His voice cracked. "It's _my_ fault he died. I was cowardly, I didn't want to die, and I let him. _I_ let him get into the castle."

He forced himself to meet George's eyes again, searching his friend's gaze for something like forgiveness. If George forgave him, then maybe...

The eyes stared back, void of all emotion.

"Why do you _think_ I accepted? I want..."

He could have said, _I want to be stronger. I want to be strong enough to defend the people I love. I want to be strong enough to be a true Gryffindor._

"I want to kill him, this time."

Something finally lit up in George's eyes, a spark of fierceness nothing like the forgiveness Lee had been seeking. But he still said nothing.

Lee looked out the window, and someone knocked on the door.

* * *

><p>Diagon Alley was a dreary place, Angelina mused. Three shops, maybe, were clearly open. A dozen others were just as clearly closed, their windows dusty, their signs somehow faded. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes practically loomed before her, dark and uninviting. Fred and George's shop was no longer the most colourful on the street; it might in fact have been the least colourful. A "We're closed" sign hung on the door.<p>

A familiar shiver ran up her spine and she reflexively froze before turning around, her hand on her wand, eyes scanning the alley almost frantically. Someone was there, watching her. She quickly located a dark figure, cloaked and hooded in black – a woman –, standing, unmoving, in the shade of a shop at the end of the alley. The way her head was angled indicated that she was looking straight at Angelina, but the lowered hood kept her from making out her features. It was very warm outside today. Who would wear a cloak?

Angelina let out the breath she realised she'd been holding and struggled to calm her nerves. _The Death Eaters are dead or in Azkaban, _she told herself. She raised a hand and waved to the figure in black... who spun on the spot and Disapparated soundlessly when she realised she'd been spotted.

Angelina hurriedly rapped on the door, keeping her wand out. It took five minutes for the door to open, and by then, she'd calmed her breathing, but her skin was still crawling terribly. Lee grinned out at her, bright-eyed, and let her in.

"Angelina," he said warmly. "How are you?"

The smile was fake. The tone was fake. Everything about Lee was fake, fake, fake. Faked to perfection, but still fake.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired," she lied.

"George is upstairs – in the kitchen."

Was it her imagination, or was there a strain in his voice that belied his smile?

"I didn't see you at the funeral," he said, as he led her up the stairs. "You were at the award-giving, and the rebuilding, but I realised I can't remember –"

"I didn't go."

He was silent, and after a moment she added:

"I suppose I didn't see... Not the _point_, exactly, but..." She shrugged. "I can't seem to find the sense of closure required for... I mean, I'm just not..." Her voice trailed off.

"I can't believe he's dead, either," George said quietly from the table, making Lee start visibly.

He was sitting, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning his chin on one hand and staring at them. His eyes were piercing.

He looked so much like Fred that it hurt.

"George," she said, her tone falsely cheerful.

Something flitted across his expression, so furtive she couldn't place it. He didn't answer.

Lee said, "Maybe you want some coffee? Or tea?"

"Tea would be fine, she managed.

"Or, we have Firewhiskey," Lee offered, glancing at George with a little half-smile on his face – that soon died away at George's stony expression.

"That's all right. I, um."

"Don't drink," Lee finished for her. "You're right, of course – I remember. We used to drive you spare trying to make you drink when we were at Hogwarts!"

"Yes," she said, smiling gratefully when she realised he wasn't going to press her.

And she smiled some more and laughed as Lee prepared her tea. They both joked a lot and pretended to be okay. Neither of them managed to fool the other. At one point, Angelina mentioned the strange woman she'd seen outside, which Lee seemed to find amusing.

"Probably one of the old stall vendors wondering when the time'll be right to come sell here again," he said off-handedly, not sounding alarmed in the least.

Angelina decided she'd been stupid; at least until there was another knock on the door, and then the jingling of keys in the lock. She froze.

"Relax," Lee said, even more amused. "That'll be Alicia."

"She has the keys to here?"

He shrugged. "She stays here a lot. She doesn't like being in her parents' house, I guess."

"Yes, George's been letting me stay here for a while," Alicia said, as she arrived at the top of the stairs.

She looked tired and tense, with dark circles under her eyes. The sharpened angles of her face shocked Angelina, who had always seen Alicia as the carefree, easygoing one who would never let anything get her down. Her body was hidden beneath loose-fitting black robes, and the light was gone from her blue eyes.

"But that's not going to last very long. I've found a flat, Lee. I just came around to tell you and give you the keys back."

She jangled the keys in her hand for a second before tossing them to Lee, who caught them easily.

"Stay for a couple minutes," Angelina said, somehow getting the feeling that Alicia just wanted to turn and run away and never look back. She raised her empty cup. "Lee just made me a cup of tea, maybe you want one, too?"

"Or Firewhiskey," Lee said again, and she shot him a look. What was it with him and that drink?

"I'm fine," Alicia said, getting that deer-in-headlights look Angelina had only seen on her a few times. The wide-eyed, trapped look that just begged to be left alone. "I have to go."

"You can spare a few minutes. You look tense," Angelina said, reaching out to lay a hand on her arm.

Alicia jumped at her touch and pulled away sharply as though burnt. Angelina tried not to let her hurt show.

"Relax, Al. Sit with us for a while."

"I _really_ have to go."

Alicia hugged Lee and George, gave Angelina a quick kiss on the cheek without meeting her gaze, and left.  
>She hadn't met her friend's eyes once in the few minutes she'd spent here.<p>

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><p><strong>Not very glorious for Lee, is it? Yeah. Well, it's going to get worse. <strong>


	12. Justice

**This one is short! Also, next week marks the beginning of Draco's weekly appearances (yes, I have managed to work out a week-by-week posting schedule). I realised he shows up _almost_ every single week. This is going to be fun.**

_Disclaimer:_ **Harry Potter is JK Rowling's.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

**27th August, 1998**

**Justice**

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><p>There was something he had to do.<p>

The uncomfortable feeling that he was holding on to something that didn't belong to him followed him everywhere since the battle. He had thought that when he gave Malfoy his wand back, it would go away. Instead, the feeling had lingered, some days stronger than others. Until he had pinpointed exactly what was bothering him; and even then, it had stayed strong within him, because he didn't want to give it up.

Maybe it didn't belong to him, he thought, staring at the gleaming silver sword in his hands. But who did it belong to? Would he hand it over to the Ministry again? To Hogwarts?

To Neville?

"Harry, stop doing that," Hermione snapped at him.

A week spent packing her parents' things in Australia and living with their disapproval and her own guilt had sharpened her temper, and now, three days after they had come back, he still had to tiptoe around her to avoid her irritation.

"It's creepy," Ron agreed from where he was lying on his back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Like you want to off yourself."

He scoffed and held the sword up. "What, with this?"

"Hey, mate," Ron said, "It killed a Basilisk once. It could easily deal with the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Oh, please," he said, looking at it, weighing it in his hands. "If I wanted to end it, I wouldn't choose a sword to do it."

"Nah," Ron agreed pleasantly, pushing himself up on his elbows to look at him. "If you wanted to die, you'd have had plenty of opportunities during the past seven years." He barked out a laugh. "Kind of makes you wish you weren't so good at surviving, doesn't it?"

"Don't talk like that," Hermione said sharply, and Ron rolled his eyes meaningfully at Harry. "Both of you!"

"I didn't say anything!" Harry protested.

"We're just kidding, Hermione."

"No, you aren't," she said.

Harry wished she hadn't said that. They all knew there was an underlying bitterness to everything Ron said, and that talk of dying wasn't always a joke, but did she really have to bring it up all the time? Did taking the easy way out and avoiding the subject make him a coward?

_Gryffindor_, the sword whispered to him. _Gryffindor courage_, it seemed to mock him.

"What are you doing, anyway, Hermione?" Ron asked after a moment.

Hermione looked up from the book she was bent over. "_I_ am going back to Hogwarts," she said pointedly. "And I haven't opened a study book in a year!"

"Makes up for all those you read the years before that, then."

She suddenly smiled at Ron, a smile that was too toothy to be sincere. "You two really think you're getting off easy, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've read all about Auror training," she said, in a superior voice that reminded Harry of her tone on the train in their first year, when she had watched Ron attempt to turn Scabbers yellow. "And Ginny and I used to talk to Tonks about it. It's really intensive. You'll be working ten times as hard as I will."

Ron snorted.

"_And_ I won't be there to help you," she finished, lowering her head back to her book.

Because that was what was bothering her, of course. That she wouldn't be with them. Ginny was a good friend, but no one could replace the years she had spent with Harry and Ron. Ron, whose brain had done a cartwheel after Fred's death and who seemed to have completely forgotten the kiss they had shared during the battle.

And neither Harry nor Hermione herself could blame him. Sometimes Harry thought it was a miracle that any of them could still get out of bed in the morning. It was just too hard to continue living the way they had. It was hard enough leading this sort of half-life.

Auror training would start on 30th August, despite it being a Sunday. They were expected to show up at the Ministry before seven o'clock, something that horrified both Ron and Harry. There were few other downsides to being "Ministry employees." Aside from the maroon trainee robes they would have to wear (which might have been enough to make Ron think twice about entering training if Harry hadn't been there to force him into it), everything else had seemed cool: a hefty pay, status, and the job of Harry's dreams. Not to mention Hermione was right; after all they'd gone through, both of them expected training to be a piece of cake.

Ron echoed his thoughts. "We defeated the greatest dark wizard of all time. What can Auror training be compared to that? At least we won't be risking our lives in class."

"Have you even looked it up?" Hermione asked, exasperated. "Do you know what kind of lessons you'll have? Stealth and Tracking," she cited. "You don't know the first thing about it! There Concealment and Disguise – that's high-level Transfiguration and _Potions_. There's even a class called Potions and Poisons."

"We brewed Polyjuice in our second year," Ron said.

"You'll have four hours of Occlumency and Legilimency every week," Hermione added.

"Well, that's it, then," Ron said. "We'll flunk out."

Hermione laughed, but Harry felt uncomfortable just thinking about it. What if he wasn't up to Auror training?

He changed the subject, again lifting the sword so it caught the light. "I just don't know what to do with this."

"Give it back to the goblins," Hermione said, without looking up from her book.

Ron laughed.

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><p>He felt conspicuous, striding down Diagon Alley with the sword in his hands. It didn't help that the sword, being goblin-made, radiated more light than natural silver should. He probably looked like a robber, a madman, or a killer. It didn't get any better when he swung into Gringotts. A dozen goblins looked up to stare first at his face, then at the gleaming silver in his hands. As one, their eyes narrowed and they pointedly turned away. Oddly enough, he took some comfort from their attitude. It reminded him of Griphook.<p>

He headed forward to the desk behind which the Gringotts Head Goblin sat. "Excuse me –"

"Harry Potter," the Head Goblin said, peering at him over the top of the desk. "_Well._"

He said nothing else, and Harry felt distinctly uneasy. He didn't know how it was possible, but he somehow had the impression that the goblin knew exactly who had perpetrated the most recent – and very ostentatious – break-in. From what Griphook had told him, goblins took that sort of thing very seriously.

"I – er," he said eloquently.

"Do you wish to make a withdrawal?" the goblin asked pointedly.

"No," Harry said. "I'm here about the sword." He held it up awkwardly. "The sword of Gryffindor."

The goblin's expression turned into something closely resembling a sneer. "I recognise it."

"I broke into Gringotts this year," he said without thinking.

Now, it was a scowl. "I recall that very well."

"I struck a bargain with Griphook. He was... useful in planning the finer details." He looked at the sword. "In exchange for getting us into Gringotts, he asked to have the sword."

The Head Goblin seemed intrigued despite himself. Such a betrayal would normally disgust a goblin, but the stakes were so high they could almost have been worth it.

"Griphook is dead now. And he sort of betrayed us. But he _did_ get us into Gringotts, and I don't feel right, keeping this sword. I think Griphook was right. It belongs to the goblins, doesn't it?"

"It is goblin-made," the Head Goblin agreed. Then: "I am Garwick."

"Pleased to meet you. Garwick, the sword is yours. The goblins', I mean."

Garwick looked at him with an intensity that made him uneasy. He knew the goblin wouldn't thank him. In his mind, Harry had only tried to right a fraction of the wrongs wizards had done to the goblins. But maybe it could almost make up for leaving the bank in ruins after getting away on a dragon after stealing from a vault.

Then Garwick's hand snaked out and he all but wrenched the sword out of Harry's hands. He sat there, staring at it, for a long moment. Then he looked back up at Harry.

"You are indeed a strange wizard, Harry Potter," he said, his voice sounding almost awed. "To uphold a bargain such as this one –"

"I always keep my word."

Garwick cocked his head. "Yes. I see that now. And you would keep a promise broken by another..."

"The Sword of Gryffindor was the goblins' to begin with, wasn't it?"

"It has been at Hogwarts for centuries..."

"Hogwarts will no longer have need of it. It served its purpose."

Garwick surprised him. "Thank you, Harry Potter."

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><p><strong>As you've probably realised by now, this fic is actually a collection of post-war moments I always wondered about (What about Draco's wand? What happened to Godric's sword? How did Georgefamily/friends deal with losing Fred? How did Luna feel about her father almost turning in Harry?), strung together so they almost make sense. **

**Anecdote:**** The name Garwick comes from the actor who played Griphook in DH, Warwick Davis. Add the G for Griphook and you end up with a pretty goblin-sounding name, don't you agree?**

**I'll post two chapters next week. One is called "Lilies" and the other is called "Lifeless Grey Eyes." Can you guess which characters they'll be about? :p  
><strong>


	13. Lilies

** Two songs did it for me with this chapter: **You Are My Sister **(Antony and the Johnsons) and **My Sister** (Juliana Hatfield). **_**Now**_** can you guess who it's going to be about?**

_Disclaimer:_ **I'm just using JK Rowling's universe and characters and really messing them up.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 13<br>29th August, 1998 **

**Lilies**

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><p>He had wanted to come back.<p>

Last time, he'd been here with Hermione. That had been difficult enough. He couldn't separate _that_ memory from the one of Bathilda Bagshot and Nagini, from cold fear and horror. That wasn't what he'd expected to feel for the place his parents had lived in. It wasn't what he wanted to feel for the place. Every time he thought of it, images of Nagini and Voldemort, sometimes a hint of a tingling behind his scar – he knew it had to be his imagination – assaulted him. _Voldemort is gone, Voldemort is gone, Voldemort is gone. _The realisation left him feeling rather empty, not euphoric and victorious as he felt it should, as everyone else thought it should. Empty of fear, empty of hate, empty of passion, empty of feeling. For a few days after the Battle, he had felt almost devoid of purpose, though the gruelling restoration of Hogwarts had quickly put an end to that.

He hadn't been sure he could face going back here by himself. And yet the idea would not leave him alone, and he knew he was going to have to go eventually. He knew Hermione and Ron would have said Yes without thinking, even if they really didn't want to go, so he hadn't asked them. He had asked Ginny. There was nothing fair about asking Ginny, whom he didn't know where he stood with at the moment and who had suffered so much from Fred's loss. But he had asked her because he knew she would refuse if she felt like it.

He had been very afraid she _would_ say No, but she hadn't. She had looked at him very hard when he asked, but she hadn't said No. She had said Of Course and When? He had said _"Tomorrow"_ and now here they were, walking through Godric's Hollow. It wasn't the same thing without the snow – warmer and duller at the same time. It wasn't the same thing without Hermione – less comfortable and yet more right somehow. They passed the ruins of his parents' home; Ginny smiled and he stopped to trace the encouraging graffiti with his fingers: _We believe in you_. Two more recent ones read _Knew you could do it, Harry_ and _Victory!_

"It's beautiful," Ginny said quietly.

He had known she would understand, as Hermione hadn't been able to.

Ginny seemed content to wander around, so that was what they did. Something invisible seemed to be pulling him to the cemetery – he knew that was what he had come for –, but he resisted it at first. Instead they slowly walked around the village, her hand in his, looking at the houses and trees and streets. Everything was eerily silent: the streets empty, the curtains drawn in every house. Hogsmeade was something like this now, too. At one point he said something and Ginny laughed, a high, clear laugh which seemed to linger in the air long after it had ended. For the most part they had both been silent, breathing in the air of the place – fresh and terribly sad at the same time –, but when Ginny laughed he found his strength.

He led her to the cemetery, which again without the snow looked different. He could have found the grave in his sleep; the memory was etched into his mind forever. So he knew he wasn't mistaken when he saw a figure already leaning over his parents' grave. A woman in a Muggle clothing, with blond hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Harry pulled up short and froze; Ginny almost ran into him.

"Harry, what –" She followed his gaze and frowned. "Oh! Is that –?"

The figure looked up and Harry backed away a step or two.

"_Aunt Petunia?_"

* * *

><p>Damned if she knew why exactly she was here – laying flowers on <em>his<em> grave. She hadn't been here since the funeral, which she _had_ attended, despite what Vernon thought of it. _She_ had organised it and she had _insisted_ on attending, without her family. She remembered Vernon's face when she had said, _"She was my sister!"_, remembered thinking it was a reflection of her own shock at the words. The air of the place hadn't changed since then: suffocating and unwelcoming. She had hated the village on sight, had thought the church ugly and plain and the houses too old to be called quaint. Still, she had felt the need to come back. So suddenly, after so many years – almost twenty – away, she had wanted to come back.

She had seen the memorial for the first time that morning. She had almost screamed when she saw the simple, sober obelisk waver, than shift into a statue of three people smiling down at her. Then she had gone to _their_ house, not really knowing why. As she traced the bars of the rusty gate with her fingers, a sign appeared – again, she leapt back in fear. _Invisible to Muggles_... It was Lily's blood which had woken the magic up for Petunia, so that she could see the sign. The inscriptions for the boy had shocked her: _If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!_ or _We can do this, Harry! _Some had been written _years_ ago. The war had been such a serious thing, and _he_ had been right in the middle of it. Why hadn't she ever realised that?

Why hadn't she cared?

She had found the grave easily. So many years later, she still remembered exactly where it was.

She had brought lilies, a flower her sister actually despised with a passion, but that the Potter boy (how did she know this, why did she remember it?) had been rather fond of and that Petunia had once loved. She set them down on Lily's side first, and stayed there for a moment, kneeling on the cold stone which even the midday sun could not warm. Then she impulsively reached out, unwrapped the ribbon tying the lily stems together, and set half of the flowers below _his_ name. After all, he would have appreciated them more.

"Hello, Lily," she said softly. "Your son is alive. That's all you would want to hear, isn't it? He's alive and well as far as I know. I haven't seen him since last year, but they said he was alive and the war was over. That means you've won, I think."

Then she heard the voice and she looked up.

And she started and felt herself go quite faint because though Lily had assured her that ghosts were real, she had never expected to find herself face to face with one.

The ghost said, "Aunt Petunia?" and she realised it was Harry.

It was the hair. She was sure of it. He had grown taller still and looked almost exactly like his father; a girl with red hair beside him and the breath was knocked out of Petunia because – because – _Lily_. It had to be the hair – red hair as bright as fire, and hand in hand as they were, and he so much like his father... And the grave, the fact that she was kneeling on their tomb.

For a second, she could have sworn her sister and her murderous husband had come back. But it was only Harry. Just Harry, with Lily's eyes.

"Harry," she said, standing up.

She saw his gaze flick to the flowers, then back to her, his expression unreadable. The girl holding his hand looked somewhat apprehensive.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

A harsh, cold tone which, despite everything, she had never heard in Lily's voice. The spell was broken; she flinched.

"I brought them... flowers," she said.

"Lilies."

She snorted at that, thinking of what Lily would say: _How terribly _thoughtful_ of you, Petunia; you'll never change, will you?_ That had been the essence of her thank-you letter for the vase Petunia had sent her for Christmas.

"I... er..."

Harry didn't really say anything, but she could tell he wanted her to leave. He probably wanted nothing more than to forget her and Vernon, and forget especially that she had ever been _here_, in this village. This cemetery. Standing before _their_ grave.

"I never liked your father," she said, looking sideways at the flowers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry's jaw clench.

"I never really knew him," she said. "By that time Lily and I weren't really talking. But what she _would_ say... it was all wars and deaths and danger and always, always that Potter boy lurking in the shadows.

"I blamed him for her death."

Harry looked sharply at her.

"I still think that if she hadn't met him, she wouldn't have died like this," she said quietly. "Maybe you'll say I don't understand how that sort of thing works – and you're right, I don't. But I can't help thinking that – that – that it was his fault she died.

"I didn't go to their wedding, and I never invited them over once they were married. I saw them only twice; once when he stopped by to pick her up after her seventh year of school, and once right after you were born. She didn't send a card, you know. She just showed up on our doorstep and said this was Harry and she thought I might like to know I had a nephew even though he was likely to be as abnormal as her. I didn't let her in, because Vernon would have had a fit if he'd seen them... Your father was with her then, and..." She shook her head. "You look so much like him. The way you're looking at me right now – he hated me. He was about as tall as you were..."

"I know," he said shortly.

He looked at her, searching her gaze; it hurt to meet his eyes.

Then he said, "This is Ginny. My... friend. You've met Mr Weasley; he's her father. Ginny, this is my aunt Petunia."

Ginny reached out with her free hand cautiously, a guarded expression on her face. And Petunia took her hand and shook it very quickly, and let go just as quickly. Something flickered in Harry's expression.

"I'm sorry they're dead, you know," she said quietly. "And I'm sorry we lied to you – not about being a wizard, but about _them_. They weren't lazy or useless or good for nothing. They weren't worthless or jobless. They probably had more money than Vernon and I ever will."

"I know," he said again, but his tone was less harsh this time.

She glanced at the lilies again, fresh and white against the stone. "And I think they were happy."

"They were."

She hesitated. "How did..." She faltered, stopped, then started again, her voice steadier. " How did they die?"

He looked startled. "You never knew?"

"I know that Dark Lord of yours – Voldemort – killed them. But they never said... no one ever told me _why_. Why they were fighting him in the first place, why they were killed by him personally. And why you were so involved in all of it. Why we – " she gestured at herself – "Vernon, Dudley and I had to go into hiding. We didn't really understand... still don't."

Harry looked off into the distance, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "It's a long story," he said after a moment.

"I've waited almost twenty years to know."

"I..." He looked back at her, looking indecisive. "I don't know if I'm the best person to be telling you this. But I suppose I'm one of the few who knows everything..." He paused. "All right. You know who Voldemort is?"

She nodded. "He killed your parents. He had lots of followers..." She struggled to remember. "Death Eaters."

His eyes widened slightly. "How do you know that?" Then he shook his head. "Never mind. The word 'Muggle' means something to you, too, right?"

"Yes."

"Voldemort was the child of a pure-blood witch and a Muggle. Pure-blood means with no Muggles in the family. Voldemort's Muggle father, Tom Riddle, abandoned his pregnant mother, Merope, when he realised she had used magic to get him to love her. Merope died in childbirth and Voldemort was left an orphan, but not before his mother had named him Tom after his father. Tom grew up in a Muggle orphanage. He was a gifted wizard and he was a very bitter person. He took to using his magic to hurt others, steal things, or get people in trouble. When he was eleven he discovered he was a wizard and went to Hogwarts. He was an excellent student and very interested in the Dark Arts."

"He was in Slytherin house, wasn't he?"

Harry looked startled again, but he nodded. "Yes, he was. When he learned the truth about his parents, he hunted down his father and killed him. Then he killed what remaining family he had on his mother's side, the pure-blood side. After Hogwarts, he started styling himself 'Lord Voldemort' and amassed a following of Death Eaters. He also started creating Horcuxes – it's a sort of Dark Magic which allows you to store a part of your soul into an object so you never die, but it's horrid. And..." He paused. "I'm not sure how to say this, but it was war. It wasn't like war on the telly, with soldiers laying traps and risking their lives for the country. It was these Death Eaters going around terrorising, torturing, and killing people. The Ministry started locking people up without trial, or having them Kissed by Dementors... That was when my parents joined the Order of the Phoenix. It was created by Dumbledore and was supposed to fight Voldemort – Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones, who saw you off to safety last year, are part of it.

"Then there was this prophecy."

Petunia frowned.

"I know, I know," Harry said quickly. "I've always thought Divination was rubbish, too. But it's an important part of the story. There was a prophecy about a child who could defeat Voldemort... It went, 'either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.' And Voldemort decided that child was me, because my parents had defied him three times... And that was when he decided to kill me." His hand rose, absent-mindedly, to his scar. "My parents went into hiding, but their friend betrayed them. Voldemort killed my father, and then he gave my mother a choice. If she had stepped aside and let him kill me, she would have lived."

Petunia gasped. "She died... for you?"

"It wasn't my father's fault," Harry said softly. "It was mine."

Petunia digested this. "The two you spoke about, earlier... of your kind. Diggle and Jones. They came back for us. We're back at Little Whinging now."

"I know," he said yet again.

"You won't be coming back?"

He looked at her oddly. "I don't think so."

"But you won, right? The war."

"Yes."

"So he... Voldemort?"

"He's dead. For good."

She thought she might have sighed.

Harry looked at her curiously and said, "Ginny, maybe –"

The red-headed girl dropped his hand and backed away a little, as though to give them privacy.

"You know..." Petunia said. "I didn't hate them."

"Didn't you?"

"I don't think so. And I never hated you, either."

"I'm not sure I can believe that."

"Well, I don't think I did."

She was looking straight at him, staring avidly into green eyes. When Lily and _James_ had brought their baby over that first time, she hadn't looked at it, really. She had more or less shut the door in their faces. So she hadn't seen his eyes until the day he appeared on her doorstep, all by himself. His eyes were what had decided her to take him in.

"No," she said, more decisively, "I don't hate you."

"I don't hate you, either." He paused for a second. "How's Dudley?"

The question surprised her.

"He's fine. He's at college. He'll be fine."

"So will I," he said, as though he knew she had wanted to ask. "I have a job – I mean, I'm in training right now. I won't bother you anymore. The war is over and Voldemort is dead. You don't have to hear from me ever again."

"I don't need to hear about... _magic_," she said. "But sometimes... maybe you could just send a letter. By the post. Our post, I mean."

He smiled a little. "Maybe." His eyes dropped to the lilies again. "She loved you."

"I know."

He nodded, like he wasn't surprised.

"Harry..."

She probably should have hugged him, or kissed him on both cheeks. This felt like it was good-bye, really good-bye.

She held her hand out and said, "Good luck."

"Good-bye, Aunt Petunia."

He took it.

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><p><strong> Like it, hate it? <strong>

** (Like the songs? I do.)**

** Next chapter is Hermione... and Draco. ^^**

** Note: I am growing more and more annoyed with spell-check because even though I add words ever day it keeps nagging at me when I run it through fanfiction. For this chapter, for example, I had to add Bathilda, Bagshot, Merope, Horcruxes, Dedalus, Diggle, Hestia, Whinging, and fanfiction.**

** Argh.**

** So anyway, typos, etc, etc, are to be expected. Feel free to point them out. **


	14. Lifeless Grey Eyes

_Disclaimer_: **Harry Potter is JK Rowling's.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 13 <strong>

**Lifeless Grey Eyes**

**1st September, 1998**

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><p>"Are you <em>sure<em> you don't want to come?" she asked again, her eyes flicking nervously from the train to where Ron and Harry stood beside her with Percy, George and Ginny.

"And that makes it fifty-seven, Hermione," George said in a bored voice.

Bored. The twins had never been bored.

"Fifty-seven what?" she asked curiously, pleased he was just _talking_. Lately, only Luna's dreamy voice had seemed to be able to get him out of his shell. It was a miracle they had managed to convince him to come here, at the station, where there were so many _people_.

"That was the fifty-seventh time you asked Harry and Ron to come back to Hogwarts with us," Ginny explained. There was a light in her eyes, the expression she always got when George said anything even vaguely humorous. "I think you're _mental_; who would want to bring _them_ along, anyway?"

It was all right for _Ginny_, she and Harry were no longer an item. After Voldemort had died, Harry had sought Ginny out and they'd resumed their relationship, but she'd ended it after a few weeks, saying he didn't need (or "couldn't handle," as she'd told Hermione later) the stress of a relationship right now. According to Ginny, it just wasn't the same between them anymore. Harry had to feel the same way since he didn't try to change her mind. They were still friendly, but the least you could say was that the situation was awkward. Ginny was eager to escape this uneasy atmosphere and go back to Hogwarts for a breather.

"Well, _excuse _me," Hermione said, exasperated. "I just thought... when we rebuilt it, you seemed so enthusiastic..."

"She's just worried she'll be all alone and without friends," Ron said. "It's not like – er, I mean, she's been _Harry Potter_'s friend since first year, y'know? And, well..." He stopped, obviously flustered.

"Suave, Ron. Real suave," George said, shaking his head. "_Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches _and this is all he comes up with."

There was a long, lingering silence after he uttered the words. A void in the conversation that fully reflected Fred's absence; all knew and tried not to know that had Fred been there, he would have answered his twin, or contributed to the joke. No one had reacted to George's sarcasm, because they half-expected to hear Fred's voice doing it. Ron closed his eyes and breathed out, and Ginny's hand found her way to George's. Harry looked away and Hermione became suddenly very interested in her shoes.

"I hate this," George said suddenly, wrenching his hand from Ginny's grasp.

She made no move to retrieve it, and only stepped back a little, looking wary – wary and weary, so damn _tired_ of this. They were all doing their best, but the war had affected everyone, some more than others. Hermione still cried herself to sleep most nights, Harry kept having nightmares, Percy felt so guilty he'd avoided his family for weeks (though Ginny had soon shaken that out of him), and George... George was the worst.

"I hate this," he repeated. "The silence. Someone say something." When no one did, he added, pleadingly: "_Anyone._"

"Malfoy," Ron said, quite abruptly.

George rolled his eyes. "Anyone but him," he corrected himself, and Ginny laughed hesitantly. Hermione allowed herself a giggle.

"No, seriously," Ron said. "Malfoy."

He pointed. Sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy, standing a few feet away from the Hogwarts Express, alone and looking out of place among the crowd of rowdy pre-teens and teenagers bustling around him.

"What's _he_ doing here?" George asked in disgust.

"Well..." Harry looked uncomfortable. "He's back for his seventh year, I s'pose."

Because of the war and all, none of the seventh years from the previous year had been able to pass their N.E.W.T.s. Not that they'd learned enough to anyway, what with the Carrows governing the school. Everyone, first year through seventh, was repeating. It was the sort of situation no-one even thought to complain about, given the circumstances.

"They _let_ him go back?" Ron asked. "How could they?"

"He's not the only one," Harry said. "The only Slytherin, I mean. A lot of them have chosen to come back. From our year, Goyle, Zabini, Parkinson, and Nott will be there."

"How do you know?"

Harry's expression of uneasiness deepened. "Kingsley told me," he admitted.

"So that's why you two aren't coming back," Ginny said jokingly.

Ron didn't seem to think it was funny. "Malfoy was a _Death Eater_!"

"Yeah, I know." Harry looked thoughtfully at Malfoy. "I didn't really believe he'd come."

"Neither did I," Ron muttered. "I didn't think the ferret would be bold enough to show his face at Hogwarts again."

"Hello, Ginny, Hermione," a voice said lightly from behind them.

"Luna!" Ginny greeted her friend warmly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, how about you?"

She didn't really _look _fine, Hermione mused. She looked terrible, with dull eyes and messy hair. She was wearing drab Muggle clothes, a dark grey t-shirt over faded, frayed black jeans. Luna had always dressed strangely; now she always dressed as though going to a funeral. Actually, her funeral dress robes were much brighter – she'd worn _white_ to both commemorative events set at Hogwarts this summer.

"We're alive," Ginny said, which was really the best anyone could say. "We were talking about Malfoy, he's standing over there."

"I saw."

There was an uneasy silence, then Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably and said, "I think you should be going. I mean, the train's going to leave soon..."

"With a bit of luck, maybe Malfoy'll miss it," Ron muttered darkly.

"See you," Ginny said, waving her fingers at her brothers – and ex-boyfriend.

"Don't forget to write!"

"Or do, we don't really care..."

"_George!_"

Hermione gave Harry, George and Percy – who, they had all been shocked to witness, was the Weasley who could communicate best with George since the battle – a quick hug good-bye each, then hesitated before leaning forward to hug Ron as well. Things had been strained between them since the Final Battle, rather like between Harry and Ginny, except Hermione hadn't even wanted a try at a relationship. The entire Weasley family was still reeling from the shock of Fred's death, and it hadn't seemed fair to expect Ron to deal with her as well. Still, she hoped that soon...

She saw Ron turn bright red and whirled around to follow Ginny and Luna, who were already heading for the train.

"Five Galleons someone will invite us to their carriage less than twenty seconds after we get on," Ginny wagered.

Luna shook her head. "More like forty seconds."

"If we were Harry, maybe," Hermione said. "But we aren't _that_ famous."

"Are you kidding?" Ginny asked. "You've been one of Harry's best friends since first year, and you've always been at the top of your class. You helped find the Horcruxes and defeat Voldemort, and they're going to print your own Chocolate Frog Card soon. I reckon you're famous enough."

Luna laughed. "I didn't you you were going to be on the Chocolate Frog Cards," she said.

"_Don't_ remind me. It's going to be the most humiliating thing ever."

Hermione knew Ginny was right. She just had to take a look at any wizard within a ten-metre radius to realise it – everyone was staring, pointing, whispering. And not just at Harry, either.

While Ron seemed to bask in the attention, Hermione just wanted to get away from it. She felt even more sympathetic toward Harry now that she knew this was the sort of attention he'd been getting since he was eleven.

"As for Luna," Ginny went on, "she's a friend, too, since the D.A., and she stood up for him after Voldemort's return and believed him when nobody else did. Her father printed Harry's interview, the real one, and she was there in the Department of Mysteries _and_ at the Battle of the Astronomy Tower. We co-led the D.A. with Neville, and then she was kidnapped by Death Eaters and kept in the same dungeon as Harry, Ron and you. During the final battle, she stunned Alecto Carrow and also saved Harry, Ron and you when the Dementors attacked you."

"You've done far more than I have," Luna said, suddenly serious.

"She's right," Hermione said. "You're famous, too – you were Harry's _girlfriend_!"

A shadow crossed Ginny's face, darkening her cheerful expression, and Hermione regretted the words. Harry was a touchy subject with Ginny at the moment. Thankfully, the shadow lasted only an instant.

"Yes," Ginny said lightheartedly as she stepped onto the train, "I'm famous for having dumped the Boy-Who-Lived!"

"Ginny Weasley?" a voice rang out, and a carriage door slid open to reveal a tall, red-headed girl with a haughty expression. Behind her, her three friends sat craning their necks to get a better look. "And Hermione Granger and Looney Lovegood!"

"It's actually _Luna_," Ginny said coldly.

"I didn't think you'd come!"

"Of course we came," Hermione replied, puzzled. "Why do you say that?"

"Rumour has it you're all starting Auror training," the girl said. "But I suppose not. Hey, do you want to sit with us?"

"Um, well, we'd rather be alone, if it's all the same to you."

The girls looked disappointed, but as they closed the compartment door Ginny giggled. "Eighteen seconds," she announced. "Well, I wasn't too far off the mark."

"Closer than me," Luna sighed, handing her five Galleons, which Ginny, laughing, refused.

"It was a joke," she told her friend.

"This is... disturbing," Hermione said, looking at the door the girl had just disappeared behind. "I wasn't expecting them to be like this. It's... strange. I don't feel – "

Suddenly, Hermione felt someone lightly brush against her. "Step aside, Granger."

The voice was strangely familiar in a way that sent a shiver running up her spine. A voice she felt she hated, though she couldn't quite _place _it...

Hermione looked up, met a pair of lifeless grey eyes, and reflexively began to apologise. "Sor – _Malfoy_?"

At the trial, she hadn't been looking at him. Now, from up close, she barely recognised him. Not only were his eyes duller than she'd ever seen them, but his face was sickeningly hollow and emaciated, drawn and gaunt, the skin drawn tight over his cheekbones. His hair, slightly longer than she had ever seen it, completed the picture: he reminded her vaguely of Sirius just after getting out of Azkaban. (And he _had_ been in Azkaban.)

"_Please_, Granger," he said, empathizing the word as though it were overrated.

A sliver of his old pride shone through in his tone, but the word _please _didn't even seem to require him effort to say. At least not in the way she'd have thought it would to someone like him – the way she was sure it would have just a year, two years ago.

"Right," she muttered, and stepped aside.

He moved past them and she stared after him, first in surprise, then out of pure curiosity. Malfoy was... changed. Paler than before. Thinner, too – not just the face. There were blueish shadows under his eyes, and he seemed smaller somehow – less proud, less sneering.

She shrugged – it was _Malfoy_ after all, she wasn't about to complain that he wasn't sneering for once.

"That was weird," Ginny said, breaking the silence.

"He looked sick," Luna said. "And there's an empty compartment here."

Hermione smiled. It was good to see that Luna hadn't changed that much.

"Okay, so now we lock the door with as many spells as we can think of," Ginny said, eyeing the door warily. "Hermione, do you know a jinx that'll do what you did to Marietta Edgecombe if someone opens the door?"

* * *

><p>After pushing Granger aside, Draco, reflexively, unconsciously and maybe stupidly, had made his way to his usual carriage. The one he had, up until now, always ridden to Hogwarts in.<p>

Now he stood in front of the door, frozen, listening to the voices inside. He hadn't meant to come here; but, he realised, he didn't have a choice. All the other carriages he had passed on his way here had been occupied, and not by people who would revel in having him as company. So...

He couldn't bring himself to knock – because when had he ever knocked on this door? – but entering as though nothing had happened wasn't an option. He was debating whether to just stay in the corridor when the door slid open, revealing maybe the last face he wanted to see right now.

"Hey," Theodore Nott said. "Are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?"

Draco hesitated, then stepped in, trying to avoid looking at Theo. As soon as he had laid eyes on him, memories had flashed before his eyes. The Carrows, laughing. Theo, defiantly staring him down. And blood. So much blood...

He clenched his teeth and forced himself to look at the other occupants of the carriage. Next to the window, Blaise Zabini hadn't even bothered to look up from the book he was reading. Goyle, who had always hated his first name, was sitting across from him. Pansy was looking at him warily and without a trace of her former affection. And Theo was almost smiling, that hint of a smile that held more self-confidence than disdain. Theo was smart and his blood was pure, so Draco had learnt to put up with him when they were six years old – and, in a way, he had enjoyed their conversations.

"Draco," Pansy said coolly, and her tone was like a slap in the face for him. He hadn't realised how much he took her affection for granted. "You came."

"And you," he replied, trying not to let his uneasiness show.

She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder in a gesture he knew well and said, "Well, my parents insisted on it. It's not like I wanted to."

"It's not like anyone else wanted you to, either," Blaise said, finally looking up, but not at Draco. "You or any of us. We might as well stick together if we're to survive."

"You can talk," Theo said. "Your family aren't known Death Eaters. No-one close to you is in Azkaban. You could get by without us if you wanted to."

Blaise looked stung, but he quickly recovered. He gave Theo a look, then wordlessly went back to his reading.

"Well, hanging with _him_ isn't going to help us in the least," Pansy said, indicating Draco with a long, painted fingernail.

"Like anyone could forget you were all over him for seven years," Theo sneered, which effectively shut Pansy up. She flinched at his next words. "Or that you're the one who screamed for us to catch Potter and hand him over during the Battle." Theo smiled, his expression softening. "Sit down, Draco, we won't bite."

The scowl Pansy gave him stung. She didn't even say his name, but the way she uttered the word "him" was so condescending, so cold. It was like she really didn't care about him anymore. Like she would rather she wasn't here. And the worst was, he couldn't blame her for it, after what he'd done to her.

Draco sat down stiffly and wished he had a window to look out so he would have a reason to avoid looking at his companions. These people had once been his friends, or as close to as you could get. Theo and Blaise were the only two people his age he had ever considered his equals, which had to mean something. Now he was at a loss for words. What could be said in this situation? Hey mate, did you have a nice summer? He knew they hadn't. Pansy, Theo and Goyle's fathers were all serving life sentences in Azkaban. Their entire families had been put on trial, and they had only narrowly escaped retribution themselves. They had probably received the same sort of letter from Headmistress McGonagall as he had: a _You can come back, but if you don't behave, we'll expel you __without a second thought_ letter. And they had to be somewhat envious or angry that his family had been cleared of all charges, even his father, who had been just as bad as theirs, if not worse.

"Have you seen?" Pansy said, not to anyone in particular, and probably just to break the silence. "The Mudblood has come back without her little boyfriends."

"Don't use that word," Draco hissed, so viciously that Pansy sank deeper into her seat. "I mean, don't," he said in a normal voice. "If someone heard you..."

"We're the only ones around," Theo said, looking at him curiously.

Draco held his gaze defiantly, daring Theo to say what they were both thinking. Draco himself had used the word many times, and had genuinely thought it, too. Why did it bother him so much now? The answer came to him, troubling. He wasn't over his blood supremacy ideas, but _that word_... That word brought him back to that day, to his aunt's brutal torture of Hermione Granger, the torture he had watched, the torture he had been asked to participate in... And whenever he heard it, he couldn't shake the images from his mind, couldn't forget Granger's screams, the fear in her voice, the hatred in her eyes... He had seen and done horrible things during his service to the Dark Lord, but there was no doubt in his mind that that particular scene was the worst.

Theo said nothing, but Draco didn't feel like he'd won anything. The look his former friend was giving him was unnerving.

Draco sunk back in his seat and was quiet for the rest of the ride.

* * *

><p><strong> And Draco is back. Can you tell I really like him? I mean, not in the he's-gorgeous-oh-so-hot-and-perfect way (though there's a bit of that, too). In the sadistic author way, like: he's perfect for my plans, he's gone through hell and he isn't even a hero, why not explore more facets of his life and torture him a bit more? <strong>

**Chapter 15 is called "Personal Involvement."**

**Chapter 16 is called "Backbone."  
><strong>


	15. Personal Involvement

_Disclaimer:_ JK Rowling created Harry Potter. I don't own it.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

**Personal Involvement**

**12th September, 1998**

* * *

><p><em> "There're rumours saying we'll finally be doing something. I mean, arrests and stuff,"<em> Neville had said. But an Auror didn't trust rumours, and after a few months of "working" – _training_ – at the Auror Office, Lee didn't really believe that today was the day anything would change.

As it turned out, the rumours, for once, were not that far off the mark.

"I have called you all here," Kingsley said, "because there is an urgent matter at hand. I would not normally call upon Aurors-in-training, but you have all demonstrated your skill and courage and I think that, under the supervision of a senior Auror, you will be able to carry out your mission. We do not have nearly enough senior Aurors to get this done quickly, which is the second reason why I thought of you." Kingsley's eyes scanned the room. "This urgent matter is, of course, the Death Eaters still at large."

Lee reflexively clenched his fist.

"They are dangerous to the population of the wizarding world, but also to the human population in general. They must be caught and locked away as quickly as possible. And so... I have asked the Head of the Office to chalk up this list of Death Eaters. We have already relinquished half of them to the Hit Wizards, because the Aurors aren't numerous enough. All our senior Aurors have taken up a case. This leaves us with six. I want each pair to choose one; you will pursue this case extensively and intensively until he is caught. Each pair will have an accomplished Auror with them on the field."

The "pairs" he kept talking about were the groups they'd been assigned to two weeks after starting training. After examining their results, the Head, Gawain Robards, had paired them up with one another by level, matching weaknesses and strengths. Neville, who was excelled in Concealment and Disguise and was passable in Defence and Offence, was paired with Wood, who was better at Stealth and Tracking. Lee himself had been put together with Harry. The idea was that the two team members would complement each other, but it hadn't always worked out; Ron, for example, couldn't stand his partner, and the feeling was mutual, which made their work that much harder.

Kingsley was passing out copies of the short list now. Lee quickly scanned his; it was in alphabetical order. _Avery, Marcus._ _Gibbon, Teague. Lestrange, Rabastan. Lestrange, Rodolphus. Rookwood, Augustus. Wilkes, Valerio._

"I would rather this be dealt with as quickly as possible," Kingsley was saying. "If you could submit your choice before the end of the day..."

But Lee was only half listening now, clenching the paper so tightly it was crumpling between his fingers, so tightly his knuckles had gone white, so tightly that Harry, who was sitting next to him, nudged him and asked him if he was all right. Lee shook his head and didn't say anything.

_Rookwood, Augustus. Rookwood, Augustus. Rookwood. Rookwood. Rookwood._

"Lee," Harry said quietly, "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh, because you have a better one?" Lee said, slightly too loudly.

Harry shook his head and returned his attention to Kingsley.

Thirty minutes later, Lee was first in line to scrawl his name on the list the Minister had tacked to the bulletin board. Right beside _Rookwood, Augustus_, he wrote: _Group n° 3, Lee Jordan & Harry Potter_.

* * *

><p>If there was one thing Lee <em>really<em> hated, it was his job. His bloody _heroic_ job as an Auror. Oh, yes, it sounded like a cool thing to do at first. Yay, look at me, I'm hunting down Dark Wizards. But really, all he'd been doing since he got here was listen to retired Aurors drone on about the dangers and risks involved (_I _know_ that, of course I do, I fought in a bloody _war) and screech about how his stance was all wrong and how he should never, ever put his wand somewhere it took more than 0.77 seconds to draw it from.

Auror training was as hard as it was made out to be, and nowhere near as interesting except for a few on-the-field exercises that at least let you breathe in the fresh outside air. There was only one reason he was still going along with this. He was more determined than maybe anyone else to become an Auror as quickly as possible – hopefully before the five years of training were up. And it wasn't because this was his dream job – that was Harry's idealistic approach, not his. Lee had a personal reason for taking Kingsley up on his offer.

He did everything he could to be the best. He often stayed up until early in the morning studying, which had helped him quickly rise to the top of his class in all theoretical, written tests. He'd had to work harder for the concrete stuff, but not a lot. He had always liked Transfiguration – Fred used to say he had a crush on McGonagall, which was so not true – and so was better than average at Concealment and Disguise, and had even mastered the Disillusionment Charm so well he could make himself practically invisible. Thanks to his DA year he'd learned enough to handle himself well in Defence and Offence – though it annoyed him that Harry could beat him so effortlessly. Harry seemed to rely on instinct more than anything else, and it _worked_. Wandless and Wordless had Lee lost at first, but a few nights of practice had ended that. Potions and Poisons was relatively straightforward; it was Stealth and Tracking that really did him in. He always got caught. He had to be the worst in that particular class, or maybe second or third worst, slightly above Neville and Ron who were ridiculously clumsy.

"You okay, Lee?"

He looked up at Neville and forced a smile. "Fine. Well, I'm a bit bored, but..."

"It's not all it's made out to be, is it?" Neville asked. "Training, I mean. I thought the lessons would be more interesting, but..." His voice trailed off.

"Yeah."

Lee knew what he meant. They only had two two-hour lessons each day, during which everyone struggled and stared and didn't understand anything, and then they spent their afternoons filing, mopping up, trying to understand the lessons, or napping. During the first few weeks, they'd gone through Death Eaters' former houses hunting for Dark Artefacts, but that was over now.

Though they still hadn't done Malfoy Manor. Admittedly, the Malfoy kid – Draco? – had come to them and handed over an impressive array of Dark Artefacts, all extremely dangerous, but they had no reason to believe he had given them everything.

"Yeah, it is pretty bad, isn't it? Harry seems to like it, though."

Neville glanced over at the Boy-Who-Lived. "I don't know that he does. It just makes him forget, I think – gives him a purpose. He hasn't been the same since the war."

Lee laughed. "Who has?"

"You have a point," Neville said. "But I think I have."

Lee looked at him, surprised. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "Yeah, I s'pose you have."

"But now... this Death Eater thing, it's serious stuff, isn't it?"

"I think we're ready. We fought in the war."

"Yeah. Yeah, we did." Neville was silent for a moment. "You know, for a moment back there, I considered taking Lestrange. Either one of them."

Lee nodded. It wasn't a secret – or at least not anymore, not after the Prophet had started its idiotic Hero of the Week column, in which, every Monday, a reporter delved into the private life of a "war hero" – that Neville's parents had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, and Barty Crouch Jr.

"But then I thought, it wouldn't be right. Taking revenge – it's something _they_ would do, you know?"

Lee nodded again, wondering if Neville knew just how personally involved he was with Rookwood – just why he had taken the case.

Neville gave a wry smile. "And Kingsley would never have let me, anyway. Everyone knows about my family and the Lestranges now." He looked serious again. "Lee, I can understand probably better than anyone what –"

Neville was cut off abruptly as Ron suddenly shoved past him and smashed his fist into Lee's face.

"You fucking _bastard_!" Ron snarled, pulling his arm back to deliver another punch. "Don't you _dare_ take that case, it's mine, _he_'s mine, Fred – " Ron seemed at a loss for words for a moment, then his fist connected with Lee's jaw again. "Bastard!" he repeated, drawing his wand.

And then everything went black.

* * *

><p>A Stunning Spell. Definitely.<p>

He hadn't heard Ron say anything except _bastard_, which he took to mean the redhead had actually mastered non-verbal magic. Of course. Ron had to choose _this_ moment to let his skill show through.

If he was completely honest with himself, Lee had to admit he had been expecting the anger. No doubt Ron had intended to take the case for himself, to track Rookwood down to the ends of the earth and _make him pay_... but Lee had beat him to it, and he wasn't about to back down now. Not for anything in the world.

"Just what," Robards was saying furiously, "did you think you were doing? Stunning a colleague!"

"He provoked me," Ron said sullenly.

Lee bolted upright. He'd been lying on a sort of sofa, and after a moment he realised he was in the Aurors' lounge. Well, he sure hadn't gone far.

"Provoked you? Really? How so?"

Ron didn't say anything. But then, he didn't have a choice – if he said anything, Lee would be taken off the case, but Ron would also be forbidden to have anything to do with it. Personal grudges were not encouraged in the business.

"He provoked you," Robards repeated, his tone mocking. "You aren't at school anymore, kid. This is the real world. You need actual excuses if you want to go around Stunning people." Robards turned to Lee and smiled. He seemed to like him, if only for his good grades. "Ah, Jordan. You're up. Weasley..."

"I'm sorry," Ron said immediately, glaring at Lee.

"It's all right, mate," Lee replied, flashing a cold smile.

Ron turned on his heel and left the lounge. (It would always amuse Lee that the Aurors were viewed as serious, hard-working, elite wizards when they spent most of their time in the lounge being paid for doing paperwork or playing cards with other Aurors.)

Robards' expression darkened. "You chose Rookwood, right?"

Lee's pulse sped up. Did Robards know? "Yes," he said cautiously. "Is there anything wrong with that, sir?"

"He's extremely dangerous," Robards muttered, almost to himself.

"I was under the assumption that they all were, sir."

Robards looked at him, not looking amused. "Jordan, you're one of the best out of the new batch, but you're still a kid. You've only been in training for four months. So you... you be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've decided to hand you over to Savage," Robards went on. "The man's got two decades of experience on him, and he still has the reflexes he had when he was your age. He'll be supervising and helping you with Rookwood."

Richard Savage was well-known in the Auror Office. He had about two hundred scars and only three fingers on his left hand, and he was rumoured to be ruthless. Just the kind of guy Lee wanted by his side as he hunted down the Death Eater... but ultimately, Rookwood was his.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome." Robards stared at him for a moment longer. "What was Weasley talking about?"

Lee shrugged. "I was out of line. Said something about the lesson this morning. Defence and Offence, when his partner managed to charm his trousers off – quite literally. He got defensive."

"Offensive, more like," Robards said. "Broke your nose; but we healed it quickly enough, there won't be any marks."

"Thank you."

"I think you're going to bruise, though."

"That's all right. I have... things. At home. To help."

Robards didn't question that. "One last thing, Lee... Any particular reason you chose Rookwood?"

"No, sir. Closed my eyes and pointed." Lee smirked. "He was unlucky."

* * *

><p>Lee was humming to himself as he stepped into WWW, or Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, that evening. Humming was a habit he'd taken up during the war; it soothed him. He hadn't been able to hum a proper tune since the Final Battle, though. Today, contentment filled him and he almost felt like bursting into song.<p>

"Hey, Lee," Alicia said, grinning up at him from the sofa in which she was reclining. "What's got you in such a good mood? I'm sure you can be heard from down the street."

"Good day at work today," Lee said briefly, smiling at her. "It's been a while."

Alicia looked down at her hands. "Yes. I've... been busy."

"So have I," Lee said truthfully.

He examined his friend. She seemed tired and her face looked uncharacteristically drawn. Her wide smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which were faintly rimmed with dark circles, and her robes were plain black, almost too dull to be hers. He hadn't even known she _owned_ a set of black robes – he hadn't seen her in anything of that colour since Hogwarts. And maybe they _were_ her old Hogwarts robes, because unlike everything else she wore, they were loose at the waist. Or maybe she had just got thinner.

"So, why'd you come by?"

Alicia smiled again. "Wanted to see how you two were getting along. Work's good, then?"

Lee grinned back. "Perfect."

He looked over at George, who seemed to have nodded off in his armchair. George didn't sleep at night; he just stayed up and stared out the window. Sometimes he dozed off and woke up with a jolt, but this time he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Lee made a mental note to invite Alicia over whenever he could.

"He's sweet, isn't he?" Alicia commented. "I mean... it hurts to see him sometimes..."

"He's so much like Fred."

"Yeah, but – right now – look at him."

"He doesn't sleep," Lee blurted out. "At night, I mean. He has these – nightmares."

"He's sleeping like a baby now."

"What'd you do?"

"Dreamless Sleep potion."

"Really? He never lets me give it to him."

"I figured as much, so I hid it in the tea I made for him. Want some?"

"The potion, or the tea?"

"Both. Or either."

Lee grinned and sat down across from Alicia. "No, I'm all right."

She examined him. "You look better than all right. What happened?"

"Every pair has been assigned to the capture of a Death Eater," Lee said proudly, lifting his head. "I picked Rookwood."

Alicia didn't react the way he'd expected her to. She just sipped her tea and shrugged. "Guess that explains the bruise on your jaw, then."

"Yeah," Lee said, touching his face gingerly. "That would be Ron."

"Fred was his brother," Alicia said quietly. "Don't you think –"

"Personal involvement and all that. Ron wouldn't have been good for the job."

"And you're not personally involved in the least."

"I'm better at controlling my emotions." Lee sighed. "I think we both signed up for the same reason, you know."

"Harry's your partner, isn't he?"

Lee nodded.

"What does he think?"

"He disapproves, obviously. But he wouldn't keep me from doing anything." Lee laughed dryly. "He couldn't if he tried. Look, Alicia. Rookwood _killed_ Fred. And now he's on the run. I'm going to catch him, and I'm going to bring him in. And then I'll trust the court do deal with him. Justice and all that. I swear, Alicia – I won't decide to take revenge. All I want to do is see Rookwood behind bars."

"Dead or alive."

Lee looked away. "I don't know. Azkaban sounds like a bad enough fate."

Alicia abruptly stood up. "I have... things to do. I have to go."

"Alicia, are you –"

"I have to go," she repeated firmly.

Lee raised his eyebrows at her but nodded and escorted her to the door. On the doorstep, Alicia leaned forward until her lips were right by his ear and whispered, "Be careful."

He wasn't quite sure what she meant by that, but he nodded.

"Try and get him to reopen the shop," Alicia continued. "It'll help."

"Alicia, are you okay?" he asked. "You look... ill."

"I'm fine," she said, looking away. "Or at the very least I'm not ill."

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><p><strong>Next chap is mostly Draco, a little bit Astoria and a teensy bit Theo (whom I really like).<strong>

**Over the following two weeks the Dramione starts. I don't know what day I'll post (I'm on vacation so I can do it pretty much whenever), I've been thinking about Wednesday and Friday to change a bit from Friday and Saturday, but I'm not sure.  
><strong>


	16. Backbone

_Disclaimer:_ JK Rowling created Harry Potter.

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><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

**Backbone**

**19th September, 1998**

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><p>Theo was getting on his nerves. That odd way of his, of being aloof one moment and then suddenly warm and friendly, was going to drive him mad. He would have understood if Theo had blocked him out and avoided him forever after what he had done. He would even have understood if his friend had pretended nothing ever happened, because that was the kind of thing Theo did. But this constantly fluctuating attitude he <em>couldn't<em> understand. And it annoyed him. He had taken to avoiding Theo.

"Can't," he replied to his friend's invitation to join the circle of Slytherins lounging in the Common room with a game of cards. "I have class."

It wasn't even a lie. There was a new class on their schedule this year. Restoration. He absolutely hated it. It took three hours of his time every week, and it consisted in half a dozen other people guilt-tripping him as they worked on the smaller things that hadn't been repaired yet around the castle. _Technically_ it was optional, but the way he was doing, a little extra credit couldn't hurt. McGonagall had been pretty clear about _that_ the last time he'd seen her. Oh, the fun they had during their little chats. He couldn't shake the feeling that she _really_ didn't like him, and most days, it took all he had to remind himself that this dragon was the woman who had awarded him his captainship this year.

"This is our free period," Theo pointed out.

"Not for me," he said shortly, and slung his bag across his shoulder and left.

Restoration was terrible because everyone suspected him of _something_. Theo had said that, over the summer, it had been enjoyable, but Theo had a way of blending in. He, on the other hand, felt as conspicuous as a pregnant Hungarian Horntail whenever he showed up among the handful of other volunteers. To make matters worse, Hermione bloody _Granger_ was one of those six other students. She wasn't the most unpleasant – she didn't go out of her way to shoot him death glares or say, in a very loud voice, that the people who had done this had been _bastards_ and deserved to rot in Azkaban –, but her very presence was unnerving. He sometimes caught her glances in his direction, and he knew she was as uncomfortable with his being there as he was. Their tasks were usually spread out across the castle, and he had noticed (why did he care?) that she always chose the more difficult or time-consuming. He himself tended to choose the ones that were furthest from wherever she went. They had found themselves working side-by-side only once, and that hadn't been an experience he would remember with fondness in the years to come. Granger hadn't said a word during the entire hour, hadn't even looked him in the eye. That was almost worse than the others' open hostility, and he much preferred working with any of the others, even Looney Lovegood.

"Draco," said a gentle voice behind him. "Wait up."

He turned, recognising the voice. "Hey," he said, knowing he sounded surprised.

"Are you headed for Restoration? I am, too."

And just like that, she fell in step with him.

Only seven students had volunteered for the class, and only one of them treated Draco as a human being. Out of Hermione Granger, the Looney girl, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Head Boy Ernie McMillan, Michael Corner and Astoria Greengrass, Draco had no trouble admitting that Astoria, as the only other Slytherin in the group, was his favourite partner. (Though, if all had been right with his mind, then she should have made him even more uncomfortable than Granger.) He was glad to see that the scar on her cheek was finally gone; he had felt the unexplainable urge to trace the smooth skin of her face the first time he'd seen her this year. She still had that strange way of making him feel _human_.

"How was your summer?" she asked him.

He stiffened. "Fine."

"Mine wasn't," she said honestly. "The Ministry practically kicked us out and searched our home for two weeks. They thought, since we were pure-bloods and all, that we might have links with the Death Eaters." Her upper lip curled slightly into what might have been a sneer, and in that instant, she looked more like her sister than he had ever seen her. "We didn't, of course, and they didn't find anything, but they still treated my parents like they were criminals or something. Daph was horrible to them; she went crazy when she heard what they were accusing us of and kept saying terrible, terrible things."

"That sounds like Daphne," Draco said despite himself, and she smiled.

"Doesn't it? I wanted to go to Hogwarts during the rebuilding, but my parents said it was too dangerous. When I told them Theo would be there, they just said, 'even worse.' But that's stupid, isn't it? Theo would never hurt me."

She said this with such certainty that it couldn't have come only from her naivety. Was she friends with Theo? He had never seen the two together.

"They just don't want us to associate with Death Eater families anymore."

"Why are you telling _me_ this?" he asked finally.

She laughed. "Because it doesn't matter, does it?"

He shook his head, knowing he would never really understand the girl. She was terrified of blood, of violence, of torture. No notions of blood purity polluted her mind, and she was astonishingly _nice_. She stood in stark contrast of her sister Daphne, who was two years older.

"You know, I never understood why you – why you..." He paused, not knowing how to say it. "You don't seem to blame me for it."

_It_. He really was a coward.

"Why would I?" she asked. "The past is in the past. Let it lie where it is."

So easy to say. But where did she get off, saying that sort of thing? After what he had done to her?

He'd officially known the Greengrass sisters since they were kids, because that was how it was with pure-blood families. Daphne was in his year and in his house, and she was very noticeable. She would have qualified for "gorgeous" if she hadn't been so insufferable, and if he hadn't hated her as soon as she opened her mouth, there might have been something between them. Daphne spoke exactly like Draco, voicing exactly the same thoughts and talking down to people exactly like him. She wasn't even mocking him – it was truly the way she was, the way she had been brought up –, but instead of making him feel linked to her, it only made him avoid her as much as possible. He had spoken to her maybe a handful of times by the time they reached their seventh year. And Astoria, as far as he was concerned, was too much like her sister to be worth the trouble of getting to know her. She had her sister's face and her sister's hair, and though she was more quiet and possibly shyer than Daphne, Draco stayed away.

So Astoria was already fifteen when he met her, _really_ met her. That was the year the Carrows came.

The Carrows quite liked Draco actually, for obscure reasons he had never understood (his father hated them). They liked his skill in the Dark Arts and his opinions, his _voiced_ opinions. They seemed to want to mould him into a nice little Death Eater, pushing him to his limits and asking him to perform darker and darker spells, to say terrible things about Muggles that even he had never thought. Then they gathered a (very) small group of similar people – Death Eater's kids. Theo might have been one of them if Alecto and Amycus hadn't detested his father. Instead, he became a favourite target. This elite group didn't have any responsibilities or authority – instead, they were summoned every time a student had broken a rule or done something to displease the Carrows and asked to perform this or that curse. It was on one such occasion that Draco met Astoria.

The Greengrasses were pure-bloods and had mostly been in Slytherin, but while they were elitist, they had never agreed with Voldemort. Not a family member of theirs could be persuaded to "turn" Death Eater, so the Carrows had no scruples about targeting the two sisters. Daphne got off easy; being clever and sharp-tongued, she had managed to please the Carrows. Astoria, from what Draco gathered, was more subdued; and thus, an easier target. Astoria was the first person they ever asked him to perform the Cruciatus on.

He failed miserably, but not miserably enough. Astoria arched her back and screamed, an awful, inhuman sound. The shrillness of her voice weakened Draco's resolve and he lost focus; Astoria collapsed on herself, convulsing violently, letting out odd keening noises. This wasn't what the Cruciatus Curse was supposed to do – Draco knew, first-hand, that the pain should be a hundred times worse than what Astoria was experiencing –, but it was already too much.

The Carrows didn't agree. Amycus laughed and flicked her wand at Astoria, who screamed again. Then Alecto suggested, in that tone which meant _or else_, that Draco cut her. He had done that before. Twice. It had left him feeling the same way both times – disgusted, horrified, empty.

The anguished look in Astoria's sea-green eyes as he slashed a bright red cut across her cheek with his wand, the way her hair had fallen out of its perfectly sleek updo and tumbled down past her shoulders in a frazzled mess, the hand that reached out, trembling, as though to beg for his mercy... Draco couldn't get it out of his mind. In his dreams, her eyes would then turn night-sky blue and her smooth face would sharpen into more masculine angles and suddenly Theo, covered in blood, was staring at him with those sullen eyes, so full of defiance and hurt. Theo, his first victim, and then the second one. That one had _loathed_ him. _Disdained_ him. Draco had seen it in his eyes. And all he could think of when he passed the Gryffindor in the corridors was: _When did Longbottom grow a backbone?_

The Carrows had told him he could bring Astoria back to the Common room, and he had. He had half-carried her there, her arm slung around his shoulders and his own wrapped around her waist. She had leaned all of her weight on him, and he had been startled by how little there was of her. She was all narrow hips and sharp elbows beneath the black robes. He had also been surprised by her trust. She seemed not to mind that she was being brought back by the person who had put her in this state. The glances people threw them in the corridors clearly blamed him, but the warm, slight arm around his neck didn't.

Daphne did, of course. As soon as the pair entered the Common room she rushed to them, looking genuinely anguished, saying her sister's name over and over again. She sat Astoria down in a chair.

"Astoria! Astoria, are you okay? What happened?"

She saw the blood spattered over her sister's clothes, the gash on Astoria's cheek, the wound that Draco had inflicted and that was bleeding profusely. She shot Draco a hate-filled look.

"What did you do to her?

"It's not his fault," Astoria said, dragging her hand across her cheek, only managing to spread the blood more. "The Carrows got to me. He just brought me back."

Daphne clearly didn't believe her. But then, who would? It was common knowledge that Draco did that kind of thing for the Carrows. It was the way he had found to survive. Almost everyone despised him for it, but it didn't hurt as badly as another choice might have.

"Show me," he said brusquely, kneeling down beside Astoria's chair.

Surprisingly enough, Astoria tilted her head back and to the side, exposing the wound. The gash ran across her cheek and down her jawline to the top of her neck – her _neck_, Draco realised. How close had he come to hitting a vital spot? There could have been even more blood than this...

He used his wand to clean the blood up a little and his fingers to pinch the two sides of the wound together. Astoria winced but didn't complain.

"It was just a low-level curse," he tried to explain, knowing the words would come out all wrong. "There wasn't that much Dark Magic involved. It shouldn't scar permanently, as far as I know. I can close it up for you if you want me to; it'll accelerate the healing and stop the bleeding. But you'll be left with a scar for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months. I'm not that good at this."

"That's okay," she said. "I'd like for you to close it."

Bringing his wand as close to her cheek as he dared and ignoring Daphne's distrustful gaze, he whispered the incantation under his breath. It was the first time he had tried this on someone other than himself, and he was relieved to see the flesh knit itself back together almost naturally. Instead of the bleeding wound, there was only a strange, shiny red ridge that travelled down her cheek to her neck.

Astoria raised her hand to her face, feeling the scar. "Thank you," she said, her warm brown eyes meeting Draco's for the first time since he had cast the curse.

"You're welcome," he had replied. Inanely.

Then, just like now, there had been no blame in Astoria's tone, blame in her eyes. She wasn't grateful for what he had done to her, but she was grateful that he had healed her. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him like that. The girl had to be mad.

Her next words only confirmed this theory. "I like your hair much better like this," she said casually.

He raised a self-conscious hand to his hair, which had grown out over the last year. This summer, he'd given up trying to sleek it back against his head and it was now downright messy. He wasn't exactly proud of it.

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged, which looked strange while walking. "It's just more you."

"How do you know?" he asked. "You hardly know me at all."

"I've known you for years."

Looking at her, he realised how true that was. Even when they were children, Astoria had been the one pestering him with questions. At Hogwarts, he had hardly ever spoken a word to her, but he knew now that she had kept tabs on him throughout the years. Why? Maybe because he was a pure-blood. Maybe because her sister hated him so much. Or maybe, maybe it was just because she was genuinely nice and could see, even back then, that he was just another person she could save, like that cat she'd rescued by climbing after him up to the highest branch on a twenty-foot tree when they were six.

He knew she was brave, from that experience. He knew she was shy, through comparing her with her sister. He knew she was kind. And he knew she was attractive in an understated way: Daphne was striking, but Astoria was _pretty_. Her features were softer, less angled, but she had the same stunning sea-green eyes. And, he realised, that was all he knew about Astoria Greengrass. He couldn't even have given a single reason for...

"Why are you in Slytherin?" he asked.

Pansy had _chosen_ Slytherin. He had never asked, and she would never admit to it, but he knew. He knew she had fought for her place in Slytherin. Theo, Goyle, Daphne... All of the other students in his year _were_ Slytherin, in their own way. Even Davis, despite her Muggle blood. Blaise was the _epitome_ of Slytherin. But Astoria? He had never seen her display the slightest bit of cunning or ambition. Determination, perhaps. Pride, certainly – that was in her blood. Bravery and easily-misplaced trust. But shrewdness and guile? He remembered Astoria's Sorting. Daphne had been tense that day, and had snapped at him three times until her sister joined her at the Slytherin table. How long had the Hat taken to deliberate? He couldn't remember.

"Why are _you_?" she countered.

The question took him by surprise. "What?"

"Well, that was a rotten example. You _are_ a Slytherin. Clever, ambitious... Narcissistic," she added after a moment. "A lot like Daphne. But you can't just ask someone that, can you? Other people are better at describing you than you are."

"But you _aren't_ Slytherin," he protested. "You should have been a Gryffindor."

"Aren't I clever enough for you?" she teased.

Her tone was light, but he could see he'd hurt her. She looked almost affronted.

"The Sorting Hat put me here. It must have seen things in me, right? Cunning... Resourcefulness... Willingness to break from the beaten path to achieve my ends."

"I'll say," he said, without thinking, and she laughed again.

She was still giggling when they entered the classroom where the Restoration students met up, and almost everyone stared. Corner's gaze was particularly insisting, and Draco couldn't resist the temptation. He turned his head and stared straight at Corner, who dropped his eyes almost immediately.

"That's not nice," Astoria said chidingly.

"They aren't, either," he replied.

Corner was terrified of him, that much was obvious. McMillan, too. They both went out of their way to avoid him and made him feel like he had the plague. He usually hated it when people couldn't meet his eyes, but Corner was an exception.

"Why are you defending him anyway? He hates you, too. You're too nice, Astoria," Draco said. "You're so... selfless."

"Is that so wrong?"

"It's dangerous," he said.

"I'm not afraid of danger," she said.

"Then you're a fool. Haven't I taught you anything, then?"

Her eyes flashed, and she raised a hand to her cheek, to where her scar had been.

"Don't call me a fool," she snapped, and he realised he had never seen her angry. For the first time, at the most inane moment, she seemed to be reproaching him something. Several eyes turned to look at them, but she took no notice. "I suppose it's better to be a fool than a _coward_, though."

He knew she meant him and his temper rose, but he refused to rise to the bait.

"Cowards stay alive longer," he said simply.

"What kind of life is it, though?" Astoria had lowered her voice. "But you _did_ teach me something, Draco. You taught me that even people like _you_ have a heart, though sometimes you almost manage to convince me otherwise."

Okay, that was going too far. It was obvious he'd hurt her, though only Salazar knew how.

"Calm down," he said. "I didn't mean to rile you up –"

"You never _mean_ any harm," she said. "That doesn't mean you don't hurt people." She touched her cheek again. "You never really talked to Nott about it, did you?"

"Theo? About wha –" He stopped. "_No_," he said coldly. "I didn't."

"Maybe you should. It could help."

"Do _you_ want to talk about it?" he asked, bracing himself.

She looked at him, smiled softly. "Not necessarily. Not if you don't want to."

"I don't."

"I know that," she said.

As she tilted her head to the side, her cheek caught the light. The faintest of white lines barred her face, a shade paler than the rest of her skin. He reached out to trace it with a finger; she shivered at his touch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I know that," she whispered back.

He would have said it earlier if he had known it eased the guilt this much.

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><p><strong> This was one of the last chapters I wrote. I was so caught up in Draco and Hermione that I left behind Astoria for a long time. In fact, she won't be important to this story; she's a bit young for Draco already making plans to marry her anyway. I just felt like including her in some way, sketching an outline. This is Astoria as I picture her; how do you see her? <strong>

** Also, I quite like Theo as a character because fanfiction writers are totally free to write him any way. And as I was writing this fic, I started building up his relationship with Draco, a sort of strange friendship – they call it friendship, but it isn't really – even they don't understand. And I always saw Theo as the sort of guy who wouldn't be drawn into the same mess as Draco, maybe because he was more clever, or stronger, or not under the same kind of pressure. I thought, 'this would rip them apart.' Which is where the Carrow scene came from.**


	17. Coward

**I just wanted to thank everyone for the reviews. I really appreciate that you're all taking the time to drop a comment. And since I can't PM anonymous reviewer **melanie**, your answer is here: **Things are sweeter when they're rare, but don't ever hesitate to leave a little review, because yours was lovely.

**So this chapter is in a new POV. Alicia's storyline was one of the first I came up with, though it gradually faded to almost nothingness to the profit of Hermione's. I still like her.**

**It's also quite a long chapter, 7k or so, which just goes to show that at first she was going to have a _lot_ more space in this fic. Her plot has greatly been moved to the second year after the war, but some major bits remain.  
><strong>

**Anyway, read on, and this time I really promise the good Dramione stuff is coming. ^^  
><strong>

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><p><em><span>Disclaimer:<span>_ I don't own anything.

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><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

**Coward**

**27th September, 1998**

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><p>Alicia Spinnet was the greatest coward the wizarding world had ever had, and she was bloody tired of everyone telling her she was "so, so brave." Even <em>reporters<em> thought she was brave.

She'd been interviewed more times than she could count since the end of the war. The interviews always presented her as someone with a promising future, ruined by the war, someone who had been feisty, cheerful, and above all, brave. She was nothing like that. Yes, she'd lost the use of one leg; yes, she was always smiling "despite it all" and yes, she'd duelled against Rodolphus Lestrange and knocked him out during the Battle of Hogwarts... but in the one area that really mattered, namely being there for her friends, she was worse than even George.

The last time they'd met up, back in July, they had exchanged excuses: Lee was spending as much time as he could outside of his Auror duties looking after George, and Angelina split her time between George and extensive training as third reserve Chaser for Puddlemere United (Oliver had put in a word for her). Alicia could only say she'd been busy.

She didn't even have a _job_; the Healers had advised her against getting a desk job because "moving around" was the best way to heal her leg – and they weren't even sure that would work –, and she couldn't properly do any kind of job that required walking. Aurors needed to be quick on their feet, which she definitely wasn't. And despite all her bravado at the celebration for the rebuilding of Hogwarts a few months before, Alicia wasn't at all sure she could still fly, let alone play Quidditch.

She didn't need to work, anyway; the monthly compensation she received from the Ministry as a "casualty of war" was more than enough to pay the rent for the run-down dump of a flat she called home. Even her parents didn't know where she lived, though she regularly sent them owls to tell them she was fine.

When Lee's owl – Pimny – had tapped on her window the previous night, she hadn't been thrilled to hear from her friend. He didn't often write, which suited her just fine because she never wanted to write back. She was mentally preparing herself to answer briefly with her now-usual _I'm busy, glad to hear from you_ – or better yet, no reply at all – as she untied the envelope from around the Pimny's outstretched leg. Pimny disappeared into the night, which Alicia supposed meant Lee didn't even expect an answer anymore.

She slipped the envelope under her pillow, without quite knowing why, and fell back to sleep.

The truth was, of course, that she'd been avoiding them. Avoiding everyone she'd known at Hogwarts. She wasn't the only one to have chosen this course of action, but she was one of the few who couldn't explain why. She couldn't claim it was despair or guilt that kept her away, because as far as everyone knew, she had only lost a friend, one she wasn't all that close too. And she couldn't have saved Fred; she hadn't been anywhere near him when he died. And if she even hinted that she didn't want anyone to see her because of her leg, her parents and friends would have murdered her.

Besides, she wasn't good enough a liar to make them believe such a petty excuse.

She couldn't tell them the real reason she couldn't see them. Or rather, the reason _they_ couldn't see _her_.

So she lived in this flat, in the middle of what wasn't the most recommended Muggle neighbourhood in Northern England, with neighbours she didn't know and didn't care to know and would probably hate if she knew. There was a grassy area in the not-so-close vicinity, for the little-loved kids in the neighbourhood to play football, but the goal posts were rusty from lack of care, the "grass" was plastic and it was too far away for most of the kids, who didn't own racing bikes or cars. And there was a butcher and a post office down the street. That was about it, as far as Alicia knew.

She herself liked the improvised football field because it was quiet, lonely and peaceful, despite being ugly as hell. She often went there and lay down in the grass, not moving, not doing anything for hours. It felt good. And, she figured, she enjoyed so few things nowadays that she could allow herself to be a little weird.

That day, it was raining. She didn't mind too much. However, the usual silence was broken, and not by Alicia. Not by birds chirping or a dog barking, but by...

She shot straight up, jolting her spine with the brutality of the movement, and gaped. There, about two hundred metres above her head, something was circling around the little football field. It was too big to be a bird, unless it was an ostrich; and ostriches, as far as Alicia knew, couldn't fly. Also, its flying pattern was too irregular; even though it was going around and around the field like a vulture circling its prey, it sometimes shot up higher, then just as suddenly swooped back down, or swerved tightly to –

She drew in a sharp breath as the object suddenly dove towards the ground, then tilted back up at the last moment and more or less skidded to a stop.

The broom's rider dismounted, took off his goggles, and leaned on his broom like he was tired. A wizard, flying in a Muggle public area, without even putting up a single Muggle-repellent spell! This was simply... crazy.

Alicia grabbed her crutches, swung herself into a standing position quicker than she'd have thought possible, and said angrily, "Have you lost your _mind_?"

The wizard jumped and whirled around, pointing his wand at her. "_Obliv –_"

"_Silencio!_" Alicia cried reflexively, whipping her own wand out. She almost sighed with relief when she saw she had been quick enough. "_Expelliarmus_," she said quietly, taking the wand away from the idiot wizard. "Are you a complete _fool_? Do you even know where we _are_? This is a _Muggle neighbourhood_! How can you even _think_ of flying here, let alone up and do it without setting up so much as single charm!"

The wizard looked at her sullenly, and Alicia sighed and muttered the counter-curse.

"I'm not an idiot," the wizard said, pulling his leather helmet off and shaking down a stream of long, dark hair (_Not a wizard_, Alicia realised, but a witch).

"Oh yeah? I _live_ here, for Merlin's sake! What do you think would happen if Muggles suddenly realised that wizards actually exist?" She'd have to move and find a new hiding place, that was what would happen. "And – and besides that, it's completely illegal!"

"No need to be such a buzz-kill," the girl said, in such a sulky, juvenile voice that Alicia, upon taking another, closer look at her, realised she couldn't be older than fifteen. "I do this all the time. I've never been caught before. Come to think of it, what is a witch your age doing around here?" She cocked her head. "Shouldn't you be somewhere like at work?"

"Shouldn't someone _your_ age be at school at this hour?" Alicia countered.

"It's my day off."

"It's _Tuesday_."

"That's what I said."

"Under-age magic outside of school and in a Muggle neighbourhood," Alicia said. "Care to know how many laws you just broke?"

"_No_," the girl snapped, and suddenly her eyes widened in recognition. "Hey! I know you!"

"Hardly."

"No, no – I know who you are," the girl said quickly, almost excitedly. "You're Alicia Spinnet!"

Alicia faltered, and her left crutch slipped forward three inches in the mud. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I've been reading the articles. You were with the Tornadoes."

"I'm telling you –"

"I recognized you because of the crutches," the kid went on. "You don't really look like the picture in _Seeker Secrets_."

She remembered that one. Vaguely. The interviewer had gone on and on about how Quidditch was over for her and how she'd never be a main team player for the Tornadoes until she'd snapped and told them that the day she gave up Quidditch, she'd stick her broom up their arse. That edition had been called _Quidditch Players Crippled in War. _Hers wasn't the only interview (which made her wonder just how many others had been injured), and it definitely wasn't the best, but she was pleased to see they hadn't cut out the broom-up-your-arse part. She'd cut the article out and framed it in her room.

She'd only done that for the first three interviews before they'd started to sicken her.

"That one was taken years ago," she explained, because really, what was the point in denying it? The kid already knew. "Two, I think. Okay, back to the matter at hand. What's your name?"

"Candy."

Alicia eyed her. "Your real name."

"So you can tell the Ministry? I don't think so." 'Candy' pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. "Hey, do you want to?"

Alicia looked at her quizzically, and when Candy thrust the broom into her hands, she backed away quickly, like it was a poisonous snake. So quickly, in fact, that her crutches couldn't follow. Her right crutch slipped, and Alicia followed.

She landed on her right arm and heard only a sickening crunch before everything went black.

* * *

><p>"Alicia," an all-too familiar voice said warmly. "I have to say, we weren't expecting you back this soon."<p>

Alicia opened her eyes, blinked at the sterile white harshness of the walls, and came face to face with Healer Malyna Kane.

"Oh," she said, and then, "_Shit._"

Malyna – they were on first-name terms now – had been the Healer who had treated her while she was recovering after the battle. Those weren't good memories, and even though Malyna was a fairly pleasant woman, just seeing her again was enough to take Alicia's already not-so-good mood down a notch.

Plus the fact that she was obviously at St. Mungo's. _Again._

"I've missed you too," Malyna said, smiling. "How are you feeling?"

"Lousy," Alicia said honestly. "What happened?"

"You were brought here by a kid. She said you'd slipped on your crutches and fainted. As it turns out, your wrist is broken, so I suppose you can be happy you were unconscious. It does hurt a bit."

"I _fainted_?" Was that supposed to be normal?

Malyna looked uneasy. "Well... We're not sure, but it's probably linked to the fact that you're not fully recovered yet... head trauma maybe, from when that curse hit you."

Alicia self-consciously raised a hand to the scar on her temple. "Head trauma?" she repeated, not surprised to hear her voice rise an octave. "What do you mean, _head trauma_? You didn't say anything about lasting head trauma last time I was here."

For the first time since Alicia had known her, Malyna's ever-present smile flitted into an expression of annoyance.

"We're _wizards_, Alicia, not superheroes. There's a limit to what we can do. That scar is dark magic, and we don't often meddle in dark magic. In all honesty, you could be about to grow horns and we wouldn't know about it."

"I didn't need to hear that," Alicia told her. "Really."

Malyna laughed. "You're in _such_ a bad mood, Alicia. How _can_ you be at a time like this?"

"I don't see what's so joyous about this 'time.'"

She wasn't sure Malyna heard her.

"When can I leave?"

The Healer looked troubled. "Well... right now, actually. Your arm is healed; broken bones are easy enough to take care of. But are you sure you want to –"

"Of course I'm sure," Alicia interrupted impatiently. "I have things to do."

Malyna brightened. "Oh, so that's it. Well, you know the way."

"Yeah," she said, pushing herself off the bed.

Malyna handed her her crutches and, with an outstretched arm, helped her find her balance. "See you, Alicia."

"Merlin, I hope not," she replied, and Malyna laughed.

"I suppose you're right."

Alicia swung her way down the corridors, attracting surprised glances from the people she passed. Her choice of mobility aid was unusual in the wizarding world, where most people preferred the highly comfortable, highly practical and highly mobile magical wheelchairs. But Alicia had taken one look at the chair and said, _No, thank you_. She couldn't imagine sitting all the time. Besides, Malyna had said – jokingly, but still – that her good leg would atrophy if she chose that option, and Alicia wasn't risking that.

Also, there was no way that chair would fit through the tiny door to her even tinier apartment.

She had gotten better at using crutches and was accumulating more upper-body strength. At this rate, if she ever did fly again she'd be more suited to be a Beater.

_Beater_, she repeated, her lips silently forming the word, and a familiar, sick feeling formed in her stomach. _Beater. _Beater, Fred, George, Lee, Ange, _lies_...

"Ouch!"

Lost in thought, Alicia had swung her crutches forward without looking... and had accidentally hit someone with them. She looked up, started to apologise, and froze.

"I'm sorry," the other said, then looked at her. "Alicia!"

"Lee," she said, trying and failing to sound enthusiastic. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I suppose," he said, grinning widely. "I've left George with Ange so I could come. So, have you seen her? How is she?"

"Seen her?"

"Oh, you know what I mean! Have you spoken to her? What's she like? Did she ask a lot of questions?" A shadow passed over Lee's face. "About Fred?"

"Lee, calm down. I have no idea what you're talking about."

His frown deepened, and something a lot like anger lowered his voice. "What do you mean, you don't know what I'm talking about? Didn't you read my letter?"

_Oh, shit._

"Er," she said. "I forgot."

"Forgot? I sent it yesterday!"

Alicia juggled with her crutches so she could search her pockets. "It's here somewhere – I think – well, it should be – here it is."

The envelope was still tightly sealed.

"Right," Lee said, his jaw clenched tight. "Okay. So you don't write for months. You don't visit for months. You don't tell us where you live, or how you're dealing with it all, or how your leg is. And this –" he tore the letter out of Alicia's hands, unbalancing her – "You don't even read a letter I sent at fucking _midnight_! _Shit_, Alicia, don't you care at all? For all you know, I could have been telling you George died in that letter!"

Alicia regained her balance with her crutches and said, "Lee, I –"

"Shut up!" Lee barked, and she shrank back. "I mean, be quiet, Alicia," he said when a passing Healer looked over at them curiously. "Just – just be quiet. I can't believe you." He looked at her. "Want to know what was in that letter now?"

She nodded, though she wasn't sure she did.

"Not like you deserve the good news," he said, savagely ripping the envelope open and tossing the letter to her.

She eyed it, then unfolded the paper and started reading.

* * *

><p><em>Alicia, Katie's woken up. I really can't go, I'm afraid George will try to off himself again if <em>_he's left alone__. He's been getting worse since Luna left. Angelina and Oliver are training tomorrow, __they'd be kicked out if they took today off; it's their obligatory practice, even though there are no matches this year – you know, the mourning period. Worst idea I've ever heard of, stopping Quidditch. Removing sources of distraction isn't going to make anyone feel better._

_ Anyway, could please go and see Katie and tell her we love her? I know you're extremely busy, but I think she really needs someone there. Please._

_ Love you,_

_ Lee._

* * *

><p>As she read, a feeling of horror steadily grew in the pit of her stomach and she understood Lee's disgust. How <em>had<em> she been capable of – of ignoring _this_? And yet the horror was tempered by joy, a sweet feeling that washed over her like a cool breeze on a summer day. Katie had _woken up_. She was alive and out of her coma and _conscious_ and she had been since _yesterday_.

When she finished reading, she looked up and asked, hardly daring to believe it: "Is this –"

"True?" Lee finished for her. "Do you think I'd lie about something like this?"

"No," she said, clutching the letter tightly. "But..."

"Come on."

Lee started walking down the corridor again, and Alicia's heart leapt when she realised where he was headed. She swung wildly to catch up.

"Wait up," she said.

If anything, Lee's strides got longer. He nearly flew from the corridor and up the stairs until they reached the door to room number 5003. That was on the fifth floor, which had once housed the visitors' tearoom and hospital shop. Now, after the final battle, visitors got their cookies at the reception on the ground floor. The fifth floor had been converted into a new ward: War Injuries and Dark Magic.

Lee raised his fist to knock on the door, but Alicia let go of a crutch and caught his wrist. He looked down at her, surprised.

"Don't," she said. "I want to talk to her first."

She regretted the words as soon as she had said them. They were true, of course, but she should have known that phrasing them that way would just get Lee more angry (and why shouldn't it?).

"I mean –" she said quickly, trying to make up for her mistake, but Lee wasn't having it.

"Piss off," he said harshly, jabbing his elbow sharply into her ribs.

She staggered back in surprise and pain, lost her balance, and fell to the ground with a small moan.

"Are you okay?"

She looked up in confusion. Lee was biting his lip, his brow furrowed with concern, looking genuinely guilty. He caught her surprised look and nervously pushed a dreadlock out of his eyes before reaching out to pull her to her feet – foot.

"Merlin, Alicia, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – I'm kind of stressed out right now."

"I'll live," she told him, balancing on one foot. "That is, if you could pick up my crutches."

"Of course," he said, kneeling to grab them. "Um, Alicia."

"Yeah?"

"What I said – about you not caring. I'm sorry. I suppose it's been hard for you, too; and I know you've been to see Katie probably more often than I have."

She should have said something, tried to ease Lee's guilt. It wasn't his fault at all, but hers. He was supposed to lose patience with her.

Instead, she swung past him, elbowed the door open, and said, "Dibs on first visit. Enter and you're dead."

She heard Lee say something, then laugh, and figured it was okay.

Katie was propped up against the pillow, obviously wide awake and bored. She looked so different from when she had been unconscious – less pale, more vivid, more _real_. When she saw Alicia, her face lit up.

"Hey."

Alicia swung over, cursing her leg, and practically threw herself at the bed, pulling her friend into a hug. She could feel the tears welling up.

"Merlin, Katie – I was – I..."

And then she burst out crying.

When she finally stopped, Katie smiled and said, "Nice to know I've been missed."

"How are you?" Alicia asked. "Do you... you know, remember everything?"

"The wall that fell on me, you mean? Not the kind of thing I'd easily forget. Is it the same that... you know..." She nodded at Alicia's leg.

"Yeah. But that's nothing compared to you. And I think it's getting better. Now, on most days, I can get around without knocking anyone over. It's worse on rainy days, but you should have seen me back in May."

"It feels so weird, to think we're in September already, and that... that Voldemort's gone for good. Last time I was conscious, we were fighting him, you know? I never really thought we'd win."

"Yeah." Alicia smiled. "You sound just like yourself."

"Who else would I sound like?" Katie asked teasingly, but then she nodded. "I know. I can talk, which the Healers say is a good sign, but I can't walk yet. Or eat without being fed like a baby."

"When will they let you out?"

"No idea. It depends. When I can handle myself, I s'pose. They're talking weeks, maybe months." Katie sighed. "Merlin knows how I'll survive."

"I'll come here every day," Alicia promised fervently. "And I'll get the others – Lee, Oliver, Ange – to come."

"And the twins?"

"The _twins_?" Alicia repeated.

Her stomach dropped as she realised that Katie had been injured _before_ Fred died, and therefore didn't know. _Didn't know_. Almost wishing she had let Lee deal with this, she said quietly:

"George hasn't been the same since the battle. He's shaken up pretty badly."

"What happened?"

"I... he..." Alicia took a deep breath. It wouldn't be fair to not tell Katie, but... "Fred died."

Then, without warning, there were tears again, fresh and wet and rolling down her cheeks.

"He _didn't_," Katie said, but her hollow voice belied her next words. "I don't believe it."

"He did," Alicia sobbed, "he did, he did. He left us, he's dead, during the bat – he's dead. They were fighting, and Fred was laughing, and – and –"

"Shh," Katie said soothingly, squeezing Alicia's hand feebly. The weakness of her gesture reminded Alicia of the state she'd spent the past four months in. "Shh, it's all right."

"No, it isn't. I'm sorry, Katie – I shouldn't – I'm really happy you're out of your coma, really..."

"Me too," Katie said softly, "me too." She waited until Alicia's tears had stopped. "These past months have been easy for me, Alicia – you can't imagine. I can't help but think I took the easy way out. I... What you must have been through, all of you..." She paused. "The – funeral? It already...?"

"Yes," Alicia whispered. "I... we weren't sure if you'd ever wake up, and..."

"Where?"

"At Hogwarts. In the Forbidden Forest."

The corners of Katie's lips twitched upward. "He'd have liked that."

"Yes, he would have. George told me – I haven't seen him much, but last time – he told me Luna wrote something on the grave. I can't remember what it was – you know how it is with me and Latin –, but it just... just made me..." She smiled almost ruefully. "I _laughed_ when he told me."

"And George is... bad?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he – here."

Alicia handed Lee's letter over to Katie, who scanned it quickly. "Godric," she whispered. "'Offing himself?' Is it really –"

"He's tried it before," Alicia said quietly.

"Luna?"

"Lovegood; remember, the one they called Looney Lovegood? The one who read the Quibbler and was a bit of an oddball? I think she's really helping George. But she's gone back to Hogwarts now – you know, she was Ginny's age – and George is..."

"Trying to off himself."

"He's only done it once," Alicia said almost defensively. "Just after the battle. He wasn't eating and he ended up having to go to hospital. I don't think it was suicide, exactly... just he forgot to eat."

"Forgot," Katie repeated incredulously. "Of course."

They were silent for a moment, Katie taking in the news. Alicia wondered briefly how she would have reacted if someone just told her Fred was dead and George was trying to kill himself, but then she remembered that she herself had been told in her hospital bed, after waking up from a drugged sleep. In a single breath, Lee had told her her leg was paralysed, one of her best friends – because, really, that was all he was – was dead, and another was in a coma. Then Lee had, eyes blinking furiously, taken his leave. Angelina hadn't been as discreet or stiff; she'd practically thrown herself into Alicia's arms and started sobbing uncontrollably, something about being worried and Katie and Fred and George and oh, _Fred_.

Alicia hadn't cried that day. She hadn't cried any day, not then and not since. While Ange seemed to think it helped, and she was certain George and Lee had done their fair share, Alicia's eyes had stayed dry. She couldn't have mustered up tears if she wanted to. What she felt was anger and betrayal and a vague sense of satisfaction that the war was over, not sadness and despair.

Why today of all days? she wondered. Why was she crying? Was it because of Katie? Had she missed her friend that much? Had she ever doubted she would wake up?

Katie covered Alicia's hand with her own and said in a soft voice, "Who's the father?"

Alicia froze but didn't take her hand back; the warmth of Katie's skin against her own helped. "What father?" she asked cautiously.

"You can't fool me, Alicia. You're _pregnant_. This may not be the time, but I've spent four bloody _months_ in a coma and I want to be up to speed. I want the details, _now_."

Alicia sighed. "No, you don't. I didn't mean that," she added quickly when Katie started to object. "But... it's... complicated. I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I just – I want to deal with this myself, okay?"

"Hey," Katie said softly. "This isn't the end of the world. You're pregnant. It isn't that bad, you know. You're not supposed to be miserable your whole life. Maybe this is a good thing."

"It isn't." Alicia heard a choked half-laugh, half-sob leave her throat. "It really isn't."

"Why?" Katie asked. "Doesn't the – the guy want him?"

"He doesn't know."

"Oh."

"I was going to tell him," Alicia went on, her breath catching in a repressed sob. "I just couldn't figure out how to do it. I wasn't even sure I _wanted_ a baby. Well, I was pretty sure I didn't, what with the war and all. And then –" Her voice hitched and she swallowed. "And then it was too late. He was gone. He – he left me. And I just _couldn't_ get rid of it. Not when it was... his."

"Oh, Alicia," Katie murmured. "I'm so sorry. This must be so hard on you. Does Lee or –"

"No. And I'm not going to tell them, either."

Katie furrowed her brow. "But why –"

"They can't know."

"But haven't they noticed? I'm sorry, but, um..." She looked pointedly at Alicia's belly.

"No, they haven't. I haven't seen them in ages, Katie. Or anyone, really. I can't get a job, and... I don't want anyone to know. When she's born, maybe –"

"She?"

"It's a girl," Alicia confirmed.

"Alicia... I think they'd be happy, actually. You're pregnant! It's supposed to be good news."

"They wouldn't," Alicia moaned. "They really wouldn't. You haven't seen them, Katie – they're all so, so hurt... Ange, I think she always had a soft spot for Fred... And George, George is really bad, I told you. Lee wouldn't care, he's working, you should – I saw him a couple of days ago – up to his elbows in Death Eaters – he's after the killer, you know. But he's happy, I think."

"He'll kill him," Katie murmured.

"What? Who?"

"Lee. If – when – he finds the Death Eater. He'll kill him." She looked up at Alicia and smiled. "I think – a girl! I'm almost jealous. You know, I think I'm glad that you're pregnant."

"I'm not. _I'm not!_ Katie, you don't understand – I'm twenty years old, I'm single, my right leg is _paralysed_, and the war – the war's just ended, for Merlin's sake! I don't want a kid, I don't want to be pregnant!"

"Well, tough," Katie said, her voice suddenly harsh. "I didn't want Fred to die, and I didn't want to fall into a bloody coma, not any more than you wanted to have your leg crushed or to fall pregnant. Shit, Alicia – do you think you have a choice?"

"There's always a choice," Alicia murmured.

"In that case, you've already made yours. You slept with – with whoever that guy is, you came back to fight in the Final Battle, and you didn't abort when you had the chance. Now you have to deal with the consequences."

"Don't talk like that."

"I sound just like myself, remember? I'm not going to – to pull the wool over your eyes or anything like that. You're going to have to face them sooner or later – and I'm telling you, they'll be happy about it."

"You haven't seen them in four months, Katie! They've changed – they've all changed. George couldn't deal –"

"You might want to rethink finishing that sentence," George's voice said, as two hands firmly caught Alicia's shoulders and squeezed comfortingly, making her choke on her last couple of words. "Seeing as I'm here and all, and I'm pretty sure you weren't intending on complimenting me."

He gave her a faint smile that made her heart jump – when was the last time she had seen that smile?

"Surprised to see me? I – I figured I had to come." He gave a little laugh. "Lee tried to keep me from going in, but I'm tired of him breathing down my neck all the time. Although," he added as if in an afterthought, "he's spending less and less time with me."

Alicia bit her lip and sent Katie a warning glance.

"I hadn't thought about you in a while," George said. "But that doesn't mean – I missed you, Katie."

"Wish I could say the same, but actually, it was pretty peaceful in that coma," Katie said easily. "No Angelina nattering my ear off, no you charming my hair blue. No cursed necklaces or whatever."

"Don't joke," Alicia said indignantly. "We weren't sure you'd ever wake up!"

"But I did," Katie said, sounding surprised.

But you could not have, Alicia wanted to say, but George beat her to the reply:

"Unfortunately," he said, grinning, and Katie swatted him on the arm and laughed.

* * *

><p>Waking up had been awful. Because that was what it was; waking up. Not waking up on a Saturday morning, when you knew you could stay under the covers and just lie awake, snug and warm, for as long as you wanted to. This had felt like waking up too early, like being jerked awake right after falling asleep.<p>

In fact, the sleep hadn't been that great, either. Sometimes dreamless, empty, suffocating. Mostly horrible, full of nightmares and flashes of light. Still, it had passed quickly, not like this drawn-out awakening. Maryl had been very kind, had seemed genuinely happy at seeing her open her eyes, had said that her friends would come very soon. She had waited for hours, not daring to close her eyes and go back to sleep, just in case she didn't wake up this time. Just in case she never saw her friends again.

And then Alicia had barged into the room, and even then it had been awful because it wasn't really Alicia.

What had she been expecting? A smile, a laugh, a hug? Those dark blue eyes sparkling, robes of some terribly bright colour that clashed with everything, and a promise to make her godmother? She had been expecting all that, and more. She had been expecting Alicia.

Instead she got a ghost. A drawn face, hollow cheeks and unkempt hair. Loose black robes. Dull eyes. A shadow of what Alicia might have been, a skinny version of her that looked about twice as old as she really was.

And a pair of crutches, an unusable leg and a scar on her temple.

As for her thinness... Her body all but disappeared in the unusually loose robes she was wearing. Her cheekbones stuck out strangely. And her wrists were bone-thin. But despite all this, she hadn't lost weight. It had gone elsewhere – to her swelled stomach, visible despite the looseness of her clothing. Alicia was pregnant, but without the happy glow Katie had seen in her aunt Elma when she had been pregnant. The term 'knocked-up' suddenly made more sense. There was no radiance, just bleak desperation. It showed in the way she swung around with her crutches, in her words, in her eyes. Even George, whom she had described as suicidal, had seemed like a ray of light next to her. Katie had tried to stay calm until Alicia had left to accompany George home, over an hour after her arrival. As soon as she couldn't hear the rhythmic double-thunk of Alicia's crutches down the hall, she burst into tears.

"Hey," Lee said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "It's all right. It's gong to be all right."

_Lee_, she thought. She'd always been able to count on Lee.

"Who else?" she asked suddenly, and he straightened, leaned forward slightly, _listened_. "The dead. Who else?"

She saw Lee hesitate.

"Around fifty."

"That we knew?"

"I... Creevey. With the camera. Professor Lupin. Um. One of the Patil twins; Padma, I think. Regina Ellion from our year, in Hufflepuff."

"Is that it?"

"We were lucky. Most of us survived. And weren't hurt, except for you. And Alicia."

"Alicia." Even she could hear the distress in her voice.

Lee scowled. "Alicia," he repeated. "She won't talk to any of us – me, Angelina, George. Doesn't answer our owls, won't tell us where she lives, what she lives off. Angelina cried into my shoulder for days! George almost died, for Merlin's sake! And do you know what Alicia did?"

"She left," Katie said softly.

"She left," he repeated. "That's right. She just – vanished! Stood up and walked out of our lives without saying good-bye! I saw her again today – pure luck, by the way, she had absolutely no intention of visiting you – for the first time in _weeks_. She doesn't give a damn about you, me, or the others."

"Shut up," Katie said quietly, and he did. "Shut up. You don't know anything, okay, Lee? Nothing at all. Alicia is – that is, we – you wouldn't understand."

"Try me," he said coldly.

"Alicia and I have a lot in common," Katie said aggressively. "Maybe you never noticed, but we're close. During the war... I told her how I felt about you – " he flinched – "and she told me many things."

_How I felt._ The words had brought such an expression of guilt and uneasiness on Lee's face that she wished she could take them back. (How _had_ she felt, anyway?)

"She didn't know about us," Katie added almost hurriedly."That we were together, I mean. She didn't. I never told. What I said – it was only ever about what _I_ felt, nothing about you."

Lee looked stricken, but he didn't deny that was exactly what he'd been thinking about.

December. They had got together in December. They'd had five months together. She wished she could say they had been happy, blissful months, but they hadn't. Those had been the dark days, slowly building up to the darkest of all: 2nd May, 1998. The war had brought Katie and Lee together, but at the same time it had ripped them apart. The war had made him tell her he loved her, at the darkest of times, and the war had created the growing feeling of awkwardness when she talked to him. She knew he liked her. A lot. She could see it in his eyes. She could also see the concern there. But that was it.

"I know you don't love me," Katie said quietly.

"Katie –"

"It doesn't matter," she continued. "Really. I understand. I know why you said it. And... If I hadn't woken up..." She smiled. "You did the right thing."

"Katie..."

"Lee," she said back, "Thank you."

This would have been an awkward moment, but it was then that Healer Maryl Layman entered the room. She smiled at them both.

"Hi, Lee," she said familiarly, and Katie understood that Lee had come to see her often when she was unconscious. "I figured you'd come soon!"

"As soon as I could," he replied.

"How are you feeling, Katie?" Maryl asked as she prodded Katie's right arm with her wand, then lightly touched her throat.

"Fine," Katie said. "I can talk and I remember everything up until the moment I lost consciousness."

"We know that, sweetheart," Maryl said to Katie as she ran her hand down her patient's back. "Your recovery is quite remarkable. But we still have to keep you here for a few days, maybe longer, to check everything really _is_ fine. It's a bit surprising that you've recovered this swiftly. We can't help but wonder. And when a Healer wonders, he – or she – worries."

"Swiftly," Katie snorted. "I've been in a coma for months!"

"And out of it for only a few hours," Maryl pointed out. "Most wizards react very slowly to what is happening around them when they've just come out of coma. You should be confused, it should take you days, weeks, maybe months to recov –"

"Well, it hasn't and won't, so why can't you just be happy about it?" Lee cut in. "Isn't this supposed to be a good thing?"

"Ha ha ha," Maryl said without humour, swabbing the inside of Katie's mouth with her wand. "Very funny, Lee. You know we're thrilled about this, just as thrilled as you are. But we can't explain it. We're worried, that's all. We'll have to keep a close eye on Katie for a while."

As soon as Maryl was done poking around and had left the room, Katie asked, "Who killed Fred?"

Something in Lee's eyes hardened. "Why do you want to know that?"

"Who was it?" she repeated.

"Rookwood," he said, for some reason reluctant. "He's still at large."

_No. _Anyone but him. Some of her horror must have shown on her face, because Lee said:

"You know him." It wasn't a question.

"I don't."

"Well, you know _something_, and it isn't good."

"I don't!"

"You're an awful liar, and I'm not as gullible as you are. Tell me what's wrong."

She had never been able to resist him. It took him less than fifteen more seconds to break her, and when she spilled, his fingers clenched on the metal rail of her bed until his knuckles turned white.

"Rookwood is the one who killed your father," she said quietly. "I – my mother knew some people in the Order, and when I asked her..." She looked stricken. "I wanted to know, and..."

"I'm going to kill him," Lee whispered. "I swear, I'll kill him."

* * *

><p><strong>I promise you this is the last September chapter. And the next one, coming up Thursday for a change, is the first bit of Draco - Hermione dialogue in many to come.<br>**


	18. The Importance of Teamwork

_Disclaimer:_ **It's all Rowling's and I'm not making any money off it.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

**The Importance of Teamwork**

**1st October, 1998**

* * *

><p>Slughorn had chosen to opt out of teaching another year at Hogwarts. Their new Potions Professor had also been a Slytherin during his Hogwarts years (Hermione was beginning to see a pattern here). He was a rather good professor, though Hermione couldn't vouch for him as a human being. Still, he <em>seemed<em> okay. He was fair, he didn't openly value his house more than the others, and he didn't have the new tendency that was coming into fashion; that is, he didn't fawn over her the way some people did.

A major flaw in Professor Bilmerk's character, though, was his substantial affection drama. Also for working in pairs, which he called "teamwork." "Good teamwork," he would say, "is the foundation of a good society. I am here to teach you Potions, and I will do that as I deem fit. But beyond that, what we – the school and I – would like to stress during this difficult year is the importance of trust." His nostrils would flare at this point. "The importance of _teamwork_.

"And that," he would add, waving his wand so the instructions for the day's potion appeared on the board, "is why you will once again be working in pairs today, and _not_ with someone from your own house."

During her first Potions lesson, she had at first sighed and looked around the class, then sat down in a corner and started brewing her potion alone. Bilmerk eyed her and seemed a little put off, but he didn't comment on it. The thing was, she thought, that she was a war hero and she should have been able to find a partner. But with Harry and Ron gone, there was no one she felt even remotely comfortable around; or not enough, at least, to trust them with her Potions grade. She found, with some surprise, that she was too shy to stand up and ask someone (from Slytherin no less), and when nobody asked her, she stayed alone. Lavender and Parvati were constantly leaning over their respective partners to giggle and occasionally shot her appraising glances. Malfoy's partner had skipped Potions today for the third time in a row, preferring to face detention that night.

No one seemed too happy with the pairing up, and she for one saw no reason to find herself a partner who didn't want her.

Or a "team," as Bilmerk might put it.

And how could Parvati laugh so, she wondered, when her twin sister had been killed in the Battle? For that matter, how could _Lavender_ laugh after having been on the receiving end of Greyback's wand? She had been there when Madam Pomfrey told her that they had misjudged the severity of the wounds. Lavender had lowered her face and cried when she'd realised what that meant. Today, her face was still scarred. A long, ridged scar running down her temple was the most obvious one, drawing attention away from her once-pretty face. And still Lavender laughed.

Was she really the only one who went around still carrying her sorrow? The only one who still constantly thought about the war, the only one who still had a hard time cracking a smile?

(Though she had to admit, when Ginny was around, she laughed easily enough.)

(Merlin, if only Ginny were in her year.)

"Miss Granger," Bilmerk said from behind her, startling her out of her thoughts. "I'd like to speak to you after class."

"Yes, sir," she said.

When he moved away, she realised she'd lost count of the number of stirs she'd already done while she was thinking. She cursed under her breath and looked around for reference. Goyle and his partner were two steps behind her, looking lost; Parvati, Lavender and their partners weren't even _trying; _and as for Dean and Seamus (whose bruises were mostly healed now, thanks to Fred and George's miracle cream), well, their potion was a mess.

She had probably been around eight stirs, she decided. That left maybe six or seven.

She had resumed her stirring when a voice said:

"That's counter-clockwise, Granger."

Her head shot up so quickly that her hands followed, splattering boiling-hot potion over the floor, her robes, and... Malfoy's.

"Ouch," he muttered, then cursed softly, shaking his sleeve. "Way to go, Granger."

"It was your fault," she snapped, and Vanished the spilled potion. "You're lucky I don't make you drink it." Then she looked down at her potion and gasped. "It's grey! Why is it grey? It's supposed to be blue!"

"Told you it was counter-clockwise."

She shrugged, ran a hand through her hair, and Vanished the remainder of her potion. She would have to start again. She glanced over at Malfoy, who was sitting next to Goyle, lounging back in his chair, a vial of clear, blue potion next to him. He rolled his eyes at her, and she was tempted to shatter the crystal vial to the floor – or, even better, actually make him drink it. The Pain Potion, also known as Scillinder's Potion, was reputed to be "almost as bad as" the Cruciatus Curse if consumed in high quantities. But most users preferred to dip their victim's sheets in it and wait for bedtime. It usually wasn't lethal; it only burned.

Severely.

Of course, they were studying this potion more because of its medicinal uses, as adding a few drops of it to any elixir would accelerate the healing, albeit making it a little more painful. This was why Scillinder had first created it. He had never been able to figure out which ingredients had transformed his elixir into a poison.

"All right," Bilmerk said, as she had almost (finally!) caught up with Neville and Goyle, "That's it for today. I'm not giving you any homework for next time, but expect a test on the properties of the potion you just _attempted_ to brew." There was a collective moan, and he smiled. "Class dismissed."

Hermione stayed in her seat as the others rushed out the classroom, and Bilmerk walked over to her.

"Miss Granger," he said, his tone nowhere near friendly, but not cold, either. "I'm sure you know what I want to talk to you about. I'm sorry to have to say this, as your abilities are more than adequate, but I cannot give you the grade you deserve for my class if you don't start listening to my instructions."

She looked at him quizzically, and he ran a hand through his hair, looking almost nervous.

"What I mean to say is that everyone else is making an effort," he went on. "And I would – _appreciate_ it if you didn't work alone all the time. It's been a month, Miss Granger. I realise the war has been hard on you, but it was my impression you chose to come back to have a normal seventh year. Am I correct?"

She nodded mutely.

"Then, if I were you, I would quickly find myself a partner."

"But, sir," she protested, "Isn't everyone else already paired up?"

"I'm sure they'll willingly accept Hermione Granger's help in Potions," Bilmerk said, smiling at her. "You can join an already-formed pair if you wish. Three is better than one, Miss Granger. You may go now. I hope you won't be late for you next class."

She had free period now, so that wasn't likely to happen.

* * *

><p>She went straight to the library, not even trying to find someone for Potions. Recently, and for much the same reasons as those which had caused her predicament in Potions, she had taken to spending more and more time in the library. She had always loved it and its smooth wooden floor, its maze of bookshelves and its large windows which, on particularly sunny days, lit up the room with a golden hue and warmed up her favourite chair and table. Best of all, she loved the thousands of books she knew she couldn't ever finish, not even if she spent her entire life locked up there. And now, she loved the peace and quiet she found there.<p>

She headed for "her" table, the one she always chose to sit at, the one which was almost hidden from view by shelves and which had a perfect view on the grounds below. The library was usually big enough for the few people who came so that Hermione could almost always be sure the table was empty, but this time...

"Granger in the library. What a surprise."

"Malfoy," she said in an equally icy tone. "What are you doing here?" As in, _what are you doing in my chair?_

"Free country."

Hermione hesitated, then dragged the other chair out from the table and sat down across from Malfoy. But instead of opening her book and ignoring him, she looked at him curiously. He really _was_ thin, skeletal really, and his skin, drawn tight over his cheekbones, had taken on a sort of greyish, translucent colour. He looked worse than he had when Bellatrix had tortured her, worse even than he had looked on the train, if that was possible. The most unsettling change was in his eyes, which made him look decades older than he actually was.

"What are you staring at, Granger?"

"You look like a corpse," she said without thinking.

He looked surprised for a moment, maybe a little annoyed, and then an amused smile tugged the corners of his lips up, softening the harsh angles of his face. "Well, what would you know? I'm out of practice."

"What?"

"I can't seem to find an adequately insulting comeback," he explained straight-facedly.

Hermione laughed softly, then stopped, wondering at herself. She searched his face for an expression of superiority, for arrogance, for disdain, and could only find his present amusement and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, his serious, cold, wary eyes.

"So what did Bilmerk have to say?" Malfoy wanted to know. "Has he finally cracked and asked for your autograph?"

"No!" she said, feeling a flush creep up her neck. "No, he just told me I had to find a partner for his class."

"That's it? That's why you're looking depressed right about now?"

"I don't _want_ a partner," she said. "And Professor Bilmerk knows it."

"Well, he's probably right. Merlin knows you need someone who actually knows what he's doing. Clockwise stirring a Scillinder's Potion, Granger? I couldn't believe my eyes."

"Shut up," she said, but she was laughing again, much to her surprise – and, she had to admit, her enjoyment.

The laughter stopped in her throat when she noticed Malfoy's expression. His face had suddenly darkened, like he was deep in thought. It changed his appearance completely, making him look starved, slightly crazy, and dangerous.

"Malfoy?" she said tentatively. "Is something wrong?"

"I shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, running a hand through his hand.

"Shouldn't be doing what?" she asked, a feeling of dread suddenly forming in the pit of her stomach. Had he caught on that she was – that _he_ was?

Malfoy didn't answer her. He just looked at her. And then the smile was back, and he said, as though nothing had happened:

"I can help you in Potions."

"I don't need _help_!"

"Fine, fine," he said. "Just saying. Hey, Granger. Can I ask you something?"

"I – yeah, go ahead."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"What?"

"Are you afraid of me?" he repeated slowly, and she couldn't tell whether he was being serious or not.

"No, I most definitely _am not_!"

"Just asking."

He went back to his book, and after a stunned moment, Hermione imitated him. And for the rest of their free period you could hear nothing but the turning of pages and the occasional shifting in a chair to get more sunlight.

* * *

><p><strong>Thoughts, please? I loved writing this, for obvious reasons. But Draco came off as too easy-going, too light-minded in my opinion. He asked the question for deeper reasons than teasing. I wanted him to really wonder, to hope she would say no.<strong>

**So next week you get a little more Alicia, some Fred, some someone else in a chapter called **Ghostly Encounter**, and some Dramione in **Apology**.  
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	19. Ghostly Encounter

**Oh, wow. 40 reviews for 18 chapters is even more than I could hope for. With an average of over 2 reviews per chapter I could push this fic to 100 reviews - so huge thanks to everyone who is reviewing. ****  
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**And to the people who aren't reviewing, no biggie - I just hope you enjoy this! Is it just me, or is anyone else a Fred fan?  
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_Disclaimer:_** Harry Potter was created by JK Rowling, bless her.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

**Ghostly Encounter**

**2nd October, 1998**

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><p>Every month Alicia visited Fred's grave.<p>

May, June, July, August and even early September had been full of life, with green leaves, blossoming flowers and chirping birds. Now... She wouldn't call the Forbidden Forest dead, but most of the bright leaves had already fallen and dulled, going from cheerful yellow to ugly brown, and the gold shine of Fred's plaque had lost its glorious aspect and now merely looked out of place among all this deadness. The last flower deposited there had already waned. They could all have charmed them to stay beautiful much, much longer, but it seemed an insult to Fred's memory, as though they simply didn't have the time to bring him fresh flowers.

She pushed her crutches away, set the yellow rose on the plaque and traced the name with her finger. _Fred Weasley. _There was a time when even the thought of the name made her giggle. Another time when it made her dream. But now? She felt the first tear slide down her cheek and bowed her head, bracing both hands against the plaque as sobs rocked her body. Within moments there was a small wet spot on the plaque, tears joined in a puddle. When she could control herself again, she stared hard at it without blinking. If she blinked, more tears would come – she knew it.

"I wish..." she whispered, then stopped.

She wished? She wished so many things it would be impossible to list them all. But the most important were impossible themselves – she wished Fred were alive, she wished she could have said good-bye, she wished she could walk without crutches, she wished Katie were awake.

"I wish," she whispered again, one more tear trickling from her eye and falling to the ground.

She leaned on her left hand, drew her right arm back and punched the golden plaque with all her strength. It hurt like hell, but she felt better after doing it. She did it two more times, then collapsed in a heap on the plaque, sobbing uncontrollably. The cold metal against her cheek was oddly soothing, as was the sight of the bright rose just inches from her nose. And it felt good to just lie down, roll up into a ball and cry. It reminded her of when she was little and scared of the dark, when she would curl under the covers and squeeze her eyes tightly shut. Or of nights with Fred, snuggled up against him. Except now there were tears, and there wasn't Fred.

She didn't know how long she lay there. She had a vague sense of it getting dark, and then cold. She welcomed the darkness, and the cold didn't bother her – she just wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and buried her chin in her chest. She stopped crying. At one point, it rained. She pulled her hood down over her eyes and paid no mind. A tornado could have swept by and her only reaction would have been to curl up even more tightly. There could have been a tsunami coming from the lake and she would have slept through it. Later, a particularly strong gust of wind easily sliced through the fabric of her cloak and robes to ice her bones. She blinked twice, realised the rain had stopped, and threw her hood back. The moon had risen; it had to be the middle of the night. She remembered for the first time that she was in the Forbidden Forest. On its edge, maybe, but still. All the rumours about werewolves (the moon wasn't full, thank Merlin) and giants and Acromantulas suddenly came back to her. Back when they were all still at school, Lee, Fred and George would have fun telling extraordinary stories about their ventures into the Forest. At the time, they had intrigued Alicia who, despite being skeptical of the veracity of these tales, had always found the Forest fascinating. She wasn't intrigued anymore. Now she was just spooked.

And what was with this wind? It was unnaturally cold, and it just wasn't stopping. Not short gusts, but one long, long, _long_ gust of wind that wouldn't _stop_. _Ghostly_, said Alicia's subconscious. But since the war Alicia's subconscious was always saying dark things, so she had taken to tuning it out. And she was so good at it that she fell asleep.

As she closed her eyes, she could have sworn she felt a hand on her cheek, and heard him whisper (it had to be him), "I'm sorry." And she was smiling as she fell asleep.

* * *

><p>She woke to birds chirping and the sun shining and hands shaking her roughly by the shoulders. She blinked, rolled over, yawned, sat up, and blinked again.<p>

"Finally! I thought you vere dead."

The voice sounded relieved, and maybe a little concerned. It was a man's voice and belonged to a man's body and a man's face. She blinked again, feeling dazed; it took her a moment to digest the voice, to take in the face. She recognised him, but she had never spoken to him before.

"Are you completely crazy? You vill catch your death," he said, and his accent was somewhat less thick than she remembered. "It's dangerous."

"I'm fine," she said, pulling herself up to her knees.

She tried to stand, but she still wasn't much good at this and she sank back down into a sitting position. He grasped her forearms and pulled her to her feet, strongly, and held her in that position, supporting the part of her weight that her right leg couldn't bear.

"You are hurt," he said, but his voice was flat and lacked inflection; it wasn't a question. "How long have you been lying here?"

"I'm fine," she repeated, but didn't try to pull out of his grip; she would have fallen.

"I have heard," he said quietly, "about what happened here. Britain lost many loved ones here. I'm sorry."

"Can you give me my crutches?" she asked.

He wordlessly bent to pick them up, and she leaned on the tree behind her to keep her balance.

"Be careful," he said, watching as she took the crutches and shuffled with them for a second. He saw her shiver, and a second later he had thrown his cloak over his shoulders. "Dress varmer, next time. And go home." And then – maybe he sensed that she really didn't want him here – and then he left.

As soon as he was out of sight, a shiver ran up Alicia's spine despite the heaviness of the cloak around her. With it came the same feeling of a _presence_ that she had felt when she fell asleep, as though Fred were there. This was why she often visited his grave. She couldn't remember ever having repeatedly been to someone else's resting place, but when she came here, she felt close to Fred somehow. It was a cold yet familiar feeling; she wanted to lean into it and stay there forever. But as soon as she had formulated that thought, the feeling disappeared, leaving only wind and chill in its place. Still she did not leave. She sank down to the ground, lay her hands flat against the gold plate and stared at the flowers. Her vision blurred; when she blinked, she felt wet tears fall.

A hand on her shoulder, pulling her upright. His voice again, this time much harsher.

"Stop it," he said. "Go home. Come back another day. It's too cold; you vill catch your death."

"So what?" she said, bitterly.

He almost dropped her; she felt it because her leg buckled under the sudden added weight. But his grip strengthened again.

"Vat did you say?" he asked, his accent coming on strong in his anger.

She was silent.

"You must live," he said quietly, "or he will have died for nothing. And his child must not die, either."

She gaped at him.

"Live a little vhile, Alicia Spinnet... You vill see it is sometimes vorth it."

This time, he really left.

And so did she.

* * *

><p><strong>Just wondering, how would you pronounce Alicia? I love it as Uh- lis-sia or Uh-lish-ia, not as fond of Uh-leesh-uh which I've never heard... and I think the first sounds better with the way it's written.<strong>

** Re-read this dozens of times and ran it through spell-check twice, but between the the "vills" and the "veres" I probably missed a few things, don't hesitate to point them out.**

** I like this chapter, even though it's short.  
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** But then, I probably like Fred too much.**

**Oh, and, next update is probably Saturday.  
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	20. Apology

_Disclaimer: _**It's still Rowling's, always will be.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 20<strong>

**Apology**

**23rd October**

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><p>"You have to feel sorry for them," Ginny said one day at lunch.<p>

"For whom?"

"You know." Ginny pointed her fork in the general direction of the Slytherin table. "_Them_."

"Do you?" she said, wondering at her friend.

"Merlin, Hermione, have you been listening to a word of what I just said?"

Hermione had to admit she hadn't been. It had become a habit to zone out what people said, especially during lunchtime when the words were interspersed with munching noises that she found... repulsive. It was strange, but since the war, she hadn't been able to come up with anything even remotely resembling an appetite. It was like all the blood she had seen spilled had sealed up her stomach; she just couldn't look at food and be tempted.

"Is there anyone in there?" Ginny said, waving her hand in front of her face. "Are you okay, Hermione?"

"Of course I am."

"I dunno, you looked really pale there." Ginny squinted at her. "Gosh, Hermione – are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm sure."

"You look sick. Have you seen yourself? And this!" Ginny took Hermione's wrist in hers. "I can see your bones!"

"You're exaggerating."

"Yeah, but not a lot. You've lost weight, Hermione. You should eat."

It was true, but try as she might, Hermione still wasn't hungry. She was more careful now, since the time she had fainted, but she still didn't eat much. The feasts Ron had adored now disgusted her. She ate, though, a little bit, otherwise Ginny would have called her on it earlier.

"What was it you were saying about the Slytherins?" she asked, changing the subject.

Ginny shot her a _You're-not-fooling-me_ look but unwillingly took up her lead. Ginny wasn't one to talk, anyway. She wasn't going so well herself, though she tended to lean the other way. She sat down at the table ravenous at every meal, as though the emptiness they all felt could be filled with food. Hermione had caught her in the lavatory once, just after lunch, throwing her guts up. She had held her in her arms as she vomited and held her hair out of her face. After that, Ginny had sobbed into her chest like a baby.

"I was just saying... All their families are in Azkaban."

She had felt strong and loving then, being like this for her friend. She wished there was someone strong enough to help her. She couldn't help herself, could she? She wasn't even the worst. There was an entire table of people like her at the other end of the Great Hall. The people Ginny was talking about. The Slytherins all picked at their food worse than anyone she had ever seen.

"I mean, their fathers. Parkinson, Nott, and Goyle's. Their entire families were put on trial, and they only narrowly escaped it even though they didn't do anything. Well, they weren't Death Eaters," she corrected herself after Hermione stared at her. "Malfoy's father was attacked last time he set a foot out of Malfoy Manor, and they haven't caught the culprit. They're saying the Ministry isn't really treating the case as a priority, if you know what I mean. And now look at them. It's like they have the plague or something. Even their own house doesn't want to sit with them. Everyone hates them."

"Yeah."

"Yeah?" Ginny looked at her like she was mental. "Merlin, Hermione – what about your sense of moral judgement? What about S.P.E.W.?"

"Are you comparing Malfoy to a House-Elf?" she asked, amused despite herself.

"No, I'm comparing you to a maniac. I hardly recognise you anymore, Hermione."

House-Elves, thought Hermione. Malfoy and House-Elves. The Slytherins were hardly comparable to House-Elves. They still had their free will, for one thing. And they stuck together. That, as far as she was concerned, was something positive that had come out of the war. You had never seen a group more united than the Slytherins were now. They entered the Great Hall in groups of five at least, more often ten. The first-years were often accompanied by older students. The seventh years, especially, were very united. You never saw one without the rest of them, except for Malfoy himself. This meant that every day at around half past seven, seven eighteen-year-olds swooped in in V formation behind Pansy and sat down at their table without a word. Almost every time, a deathly silence came over the Hall for a few seconds. She had found herself talking during one of them, once, and all eyes had turned to her. Now she fell silent along with the rest of them.

The Slytherins were silent, too. Once she had looked over at them. She had met Parkinson's death glare and had been surprised by the venom in them. Parkinson had always disdained her, but this was more than that. There was something proud and righteous in the other girl's hatred which froze her blood in her veins. Hermione felt – for the first time – as though she _deserved_ it. As though the Slytherins didn't.

She stood up. "I'm going to the library."

"You haven't eaten anything!"

"I have an essay to write," she called over her shoulder as she exited the Great Hall.

* * *

><p>It had become a habit of his, to "steal" her table. Virtually every time she walked into the library, <em>he<em> was there, reading. If he had wanted to avoid her company, she reasoned, he would have chosen another table. So every time she sat down next to him and, without a word, they would read, or write an essay, or look something up in a textbook. Sometimes she would ask him which essay he was working on. Sometimes they would exchange answers. Sometimes they did their homework together. But most of the time, they just read. Hermione felt strangely close to Malfoy during these moments, strangely aware of him no matter how enthralling her book was.

Also, they had become Potions partners. They hadn't talked about it beforehand, not since that first time in the library. But the next time they'd had Potions, they had worked together, still almost without talking, but efficiently and in an oddly coordinated way, like they _fit_. At the very least, they hadn't made anything explode yet, despite Malfoy's occasional comments on her inability. Bilmerk had seemed rather content, and no one else had commented on it, because most of them were paired with someone they would rather not touch with a ten-foot pole.

That day in the library, though, Malfoy broke the silence.

"There's something I've been trying to say," he muttered.

"That would explain the long silences," she said jokingly, but he didn't seem to see the humour in it.

"You're not making this any easier for me," he snapped, then drew in a sharp breath. "I didn't mean that."

"It's okay."

"No, it bloody well isn't okay!" He looked down at the table, visibly struggling to contain himself. "It's not 'okay,'" he repeated tightly. "I don't know how to say this."

"Just say it," she suggested, and he smiled a little.

"Thanks, Granger. That was helpful."

"I mean it."

He drew in a long, shuddering breath. "All right. The thing is, Granger, I... I owe you," he said finally. "So thank you. You, Weasley, and – " his lip curled into a sneer – "Potter. You saved my life in the Room of Requirement when Crabbe would have killed you."

A shadow passed over his face at the mention of his deceased... friend, for lack of a better word. Was this why he had taken so long to speak? He seemed genuinely sad at the loss of Crabbe, and even though she and her friends had come very close to their own deaths then, Hermione felt a surge of sympathy.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely, and his head shot up.

He scanned her face for something, then shook his head. She thought she saw him smile, but she wasn't sure.

"Merlin, you really mean it, don't you?"

"Well, yes," she said, confused.

He muttered something that sounded a lot like "Bloody Gryffindors," then said, "There's something else."

"Yeah?" she asked, smiling encouragingly at him.

"_I_'m sorry."

The smile froze, then slid off her face. "What?"

"I. Am. Sorry," he enunciated. "Salazar, what's so hard to understand here?"

"But _why_?"

"Merlin, Granger," he said. "Are you a complete idiot?"

He reached out and grabbed her left wrist, pulling her to him. He pushed her sleeve up, revealing the horrific set of black-and-blue, mottled bruises that covered the length of her arm, interspersed with long, thin scabs. She tried to pull away, but he held on firmly, his thumb digging into her flesh almost painfully.

"That's why," he said, his voice tight with – _something_. "My aunt tortured you in my house, and I _watched_. I didn't do anything about it. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what you had to go through, I'm sorry those marks will never fade, and I'm sorry because –" Here he gave a bitter sort of laugh before continuing – "I really was a bastard to you for six years of school, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you were," she said without thinking, and he laughed again, a sharp, cruel, self-deprecating laugh. "I didn't mean that!"

"It's fine, Granger. I get it."

He let go of her wrist, and she pushed her sleeve down again. She hated those marks, hated the fact that, while the unnatural bruises would fade with time and Fred and George's miracle cream, the scars inflicted by Dark Magic would never go. But they weren't Malfoy's doing. He had refused to even identify her, let alone torture her. She remembered him then, how pale he looked – more white than grey, though, maybe healthier than he did now – more scared, but healthier. She remembered how she had hated him, then.

"Malfoy," she whispered, and couldn't get anything else out. "Malfoy," she repeated, and some of her thoughts must have leaked out in her voice because he flinched and half-stood up out of his chair. "Wait," she said quickly, and he stilled. "That's not... None of that was your fault, Malfoy. _None_ of it."

"What does it matter?" he said tiredly. "It still happened, and I'll never forget it. And I know you won't, either. Don't even try to deny it."

"There's no way to forget something," she said softly. "But sometimes we can forgive."

He looked at her incredulously. "Granger, you've gone mad."

And she had, she reflected. What had possessed her to say that? The wizarding world was in no state to be doing any forgiving. Ginny was right. She knew the reason Malfoy spent so much time in the library was that there was no where else he could expect to find peace. Everywhere he went, he was the object of glares and whispers and disdain in general.

When she was silent, Malfoy snorted, stood all the way up, and left.

* * *

><p><strong>Wow... I can hardly remember <strong>_**writing**_** this. There are days when the writing just flows from mind to paper (screen), and that was one of them. I like the result for sure. Do you?**

** On a side note, this fic has gone through so many re-readings I think I know it by heart. I would be getting sick of it by now if I didn't like it so much. **

**Next update is Tuesday with two chapters: The Deathly Hallows (Lee and Harry) and then Questions Answered (Draco and Hermione). Then we'll be back to weekend updates only because I'm going back to school (oh, the horror). ****  
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	21. The Deathly Hallows

_Disclaimer:_ **Harry Potter is JK Rowling's.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 21<strong>

**The Deathly Hallows **

**14th November, 1998**

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><p>Harry loved his job. It really was all it was made out to be: interesting, challenging, and always eventful. He even enjoyed the lessons, which were the bane of most of his colleagues' existence. The pay was good even though it was only his first year as a trainee. And to wrap it all up, they were finally making some leeway on the Rookwood case. So why wasn't he happy? Several reasons.<p>

First of all, the Rookwood case frightened him more than it did anything else. Though it wasn't really the case, or even Rookwood himself. It was Lee. The Lee who had once brought a tarantula to Hogwarts, who had commentated most of Harry's Hogwarts Quidditch matches, who had always shadowed Fred and George and been there for their best pranks – that same Lee now scared the shit out of Harry. For one thing, he was pretty sure Lee could beat him in a wizard's duel blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back. Harry had the talent – the feel for a spell, the ability to predict what was going to happen –, but Lee had the dedication and the determination. Were there three D's for duelling like there were for Apparating? Dedication, determination, destruction. Lee had the first two down to a T – or was that a D? –, and he was well on his way to acquiring the third. Because Harry couldn't pull the wool over his own eyes for very long: Lee didn't want to catch Rookwood from any sense of duty or patriotism or whatever. Lee wanted to track Rookwood down to the ends of the Earth, rough him up a lot, and send him straight to Azkaban without trial. Or maybe throw him into that place where the Dementors had gathered since they'd been thrown out of Azkaban.

Second, he missed his friends. Hermione was at Hogwarts and she hadn't written to him once since she'd left. Ron hadn't spoken to him since he'd learnt that Harry was going after Rookwood. That had been over two months ago. Harry missed the companionship, the comfortable blunders, the bickering, the friends that had always been there for him.

Thirdly, of course, there was Ginny. Ginny whom he'd written a thoughtless letter the month before, stating that he missed her, that he hoped she was doing well, and that he wanted to keep in touch. The fact that he and Ginny had never been friends to send each other letters when they were apart – that they had had gone straight from distant acknowledgement to obsession to couple status – was left unsaid. He did miss her, missed everyone really, and was desperate to renew some sort of link with her, despite the rumours in the _Prophet_, which portrayed _the Chosen One's ex_ as anything between a poor abandoned girlfriend and a scarlet woman. In one particular article Ginny was said to be "having fun" at Hogwarts, and Harry gritted his teeth at the obvious statement the _Prophet_ was trying to implicitly get across.

Ginny hadn't owled back.

The fourth and last thing that ruined what could have been happiness for Harry was the fact that this exercise was_ impossible_. He was good at field work; this type of riddle – a "What would you do if...?" question – was beyond him. "React intuitively" was probably not the right answer.

He glanced over at Lee, who had already finished the exercise – two feet of tight, neat writing – and was scribbling away in a dark blue notebook Harry recognised as his casebook, the place he was supposed to write about Rookwood in. Harry had only filled about five pages in his own casebook – basic information about Rookwood (name, age, place of birth) and about his crimes (date, notable facts), a few false leads. But Lee had to be at least halfway through the notebook. It was open to a page gradually being filled with figures, runes, deductions and question marks.

Harry looked up, saw that the instructor was busy explaining something to Ron – lucky him –, and slowly inched closer to Lee until he could clearly see what was being written. And the sight sent a shiver running up his spine.

At the top of the page was a drawing Harry could have mistaken for a rune if he hadn't known what it really was. A circle and a vertical line inside a triangle. It _could_ have been an eye. It _was_ the sign of the Deathly Hallows.

"Where did you –" Harry started to say.

Lee's head whipped around and he slammed his casebook shut.

"What was that?" Harry asked.

"Nothing important."

He was lying. And Lee was a good liar, excellent even. He could make up the most simple yet brilliant excuses and explain them in such an utterly convincing way that Harry had started to doubt everything he said. This time it wasn't hard to guess the lie; Lee hadn't bothered to even think of an excuse. "Nothing important" had to be the lamest lie ever.

"I know that sign," Harry said. "And I know what it means."

Lee's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"It's true," Harry said. "So if you tell me where you found this..."

Lee looked around almost nervously. "At lunch," he said firmly, and leaned back over his exercise sheet. "You need help with that?"

Harry lied and said no.

* * *

><p>Lee put his fork down, drew something from his pocket and slid a photograph across the table to Harry. Harry looked at it and almost threw up his dessert (a too-watery yoghurt).<p>

It was a man, dark-skinned and in his late forties. He was dead. His eyes were wide open and he was naked from the waist up. On his torso, just over where his heart would be, the sign of the Deathly Hallows was carved into the skin.

"My father," Lee said by way of explanation. "Killed by Rookwood, though I didn't know until – until Katie told me. I got this last week –" he lowered his voice – "from Savage's desk. Duplicated and nicked it. But I can't figure out what it means."

"I'm not sure I'll be much help," Harry admitted, handing the photograph back to Lee. When Lee's eyes narrowed, he added hastily, "I do know what the sign means. It's just, it doesn't make much sense in context. I'm sure of it, though; it's the sign of the Hallows."

Lee cocked his head. "The what?"

"The Deathly Hallows. Do you know The Tale of the Three Brothers?"

"The fairytale?"

"Exactly. The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility are the three Hallows. It's a legend some people believe in. Supposedly the Hallows make one master of Death when he possesses them all."' Harry hesitated. "The Stone and Wand have disappeared, or maybe they never existed." It wasn't a complete lie, was it? "I have the Cloak. And that's all I know about the Hallows – but I don't know why Rookwood would have left that sign. Even Voldemort himself didn't know about the Hallows."

"Mysteries upon mysteries," Lee muttered. He shrugged. "And I thought it might be a clue..."

The bitterness in Lee's tone did not escape Harry.

"Maybe it can be," he said. "It should be fairly easy to track down people who know about the Hallows. From what I know, the tale is passed on by word of mouth – and, of course, Beedle the Bard's story. Rookwood must have heard about it from someone who didn't know who he was."

"That's way too vague."

"Yeah, but I know someone who might know something. Remember Luna Lovegood from school?"

"Of course."

"Well, her father is a believer. We'll check up on him tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah," Lee said, and smiled. "Thanks, Harry."

"Any time."

"The stupid thing was, I was this close to finding a runic meaning for the sign. Can you believe it? I would have –"

The hair stood up on the back of Harry's neck. "What did you think it could mean?"

"I'd broken down the drawing into four basic runes," Lee explained. "This is Hell –" he drew a small c – "this is the verb 'to run' –" a reversed c, next to the first rune – "this is snow –" the triangle – "and this is burn." The vertical line with an arrow at its tip. "See, you get – almost – the sign."

"It does fit," Harry acknowledged. "_Almost._ But it wouldn't mean anything, would it?"

Lee smiled. "Runes can be read in two different ways, as words or as letters. For example the 'run' rune represents the letter I. Snow is N, burn is T and Hell is W."

He tore another page out of his casebook and showed it to Harry, who recognised it as the one Lee had been writing when he'd caught him. At the top was the sign of the Hallows; right at the bottom of the four letters were arranged in different ways. Wint, Tin W, _Twin_. The last was underlined twice.

Harry looked up quizzically. "You think Rookwood –"

Lee's jaw was set. "I know about the Hallows thing, but –"

"No," Harry said firmly. "Impossible. It doesn't make any sense. He didn't know about the Battle of Hogwarts before it happened. And why would he target Fred?"

"I _know_," Lee said. "I didn't understand either. So I suppose the Hallows theory is the right one. Only... I don't believe in coincidences."

"This isn't a coincidence. It's speculation. And besides, you _wanted_ to find something like this. You tried _dozens_ of interpretations before settling on the one you liked best."

"I _know_," Lee said again, sounding annoyed. "I know." He looked away.

Harry had a gut feeling, and it wasn't good.

"Lee..." he began.

"Don't say it," Lee said warningly.

"Maybe you should just give the case up," Harry said anyway.

"I won't," Lee said flatly, and that was that.

Harry wasn't just scared of Lee. He was worried for him, too. Lee was getting delusional, seeing things that weren't there, obsessing over the case, training until he nearly died from exhaustion. He ate and slept so little Harry didn't know what was keeping him upright. Well, that wasn't quite true. He did know. Lee lived off his hatred, which couldn't be anywhere near healthy.

* * *

><p><strong>Depression. Friendship. Anger. Can you see where this is all going? In this fic, I've just taken a few extremes and jumbled them all together: Alicia and her withdrawal. George's depression. Hermione, reaching out to Draco. And now Lee, who lives fuelled only by his hatred.<strong>

** This is fun.**

** The first plot I came up with – I mean, the first personal sub-plot, beyond everyone just trying to cope – was Lee's. His best friend died, murdered at the hand of the man who killed his father. And he was out for revenge. Okay, so I used a bit – a lot – of artistic license here. It went with the mood of the story I wanted to write. **


	22. Questions Answered

_Disclaimer:_ JK Rowling created Harry Potter. I'm not making any money off this.

**There is an extremely long, rambling Author's note at the end. You do not have to read it. ^^ Seriously.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 22<strong>

**Questions Answered**

**17th November, 1998**

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><p>As usual, she found him at 'their' table, reading. When he heard her approach, he looked up and closed his book.<p>

"Am I bothering you?" she asked as she sat down.

"No," Malfoy said, but she couldn't be sure he wasn't lying. "Am I?"

"I was looking for you," she said. "We need to talk."

"Really."

"Really."

"All right," he said. "Maybe we do." He closed the book he was reading (_Your Inner Eye: NEWT-level Divination_), stretched his legs out in front of him, and said, "Go ahead."

"I don't hate you," she said.

His eyes shot to hers.

"I mean in. I just... wanted you to know that. I mean, I used to," she said. "But I don't think I do anymore."

"I don't hate you, either," he offered, looking out the window at the Quidditch pitch.

"And – I know you don't believe me, but I don't blame you for anything you did." She glanced down at her arm. "And I certainly don't blame you for this. It wasn't your doing."

"I was there. I could have stopped it."

"No, you couldn't have," she said firmly. "Malfoy, do _you_ blame me for something?"

He looked quizzical.

"You haven't said a word to me since..." She stopped before she mentioned their last conversation. "Well, you know. We didn't really leave each other on good terms then. I felt like you were angry about something, but I couldn't figure out what."

"Nothing you did," he said. "Just something you are."

"Something I am?" she repeated. Did he mean –?

"Gryffindor," he said. "No offense."

She was silent for a moment.

"You said there was something we needed to talk about," he ventured.

"Well, that was it, really," she said. "You don't seem to want to talk about it, so..." A thought suddenly came to her. "When's your birthday?"

He looked surprised, then amused. "5th June, why?"

"I don't know. It just occurred to me that I... didn't know. And I want to know."

Friends did that. Friends knew all the tiny little insignificant facts about each other. She wondered whether Malfoy would pick up on that, but he just shrugged, as though this was just some strange fancy of hers.

"Well, when's yours, then?" he said, in a tone that suggested he was playing along to indulge her.

"19th September."

"Oh." He was silent for a moment. "Happy birthday, then. Guess I missed it. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

It was her turn to be surprised. He seemed to have caught on quickly. It seemed so... strange for someone who had known her for years to not know this simple fact about her.

"No, I'm an only –" And then she stopped.

"Something wrong?"

"I..."

"Granger?"

"Sorry," she said. "I forgot something." She laughed a little; even to her, it sounded forced. "My mother's pregnant."

"How do you forget something like that?"

"It's a long story," she said.

He glanced down at his wrist, then back up at her. "We have at least a half-hour left."

She followed his gaze, but his wrist was bare. He wasn't wearing a watch.

"Malfoy –"

"Handed it over to the Ministry a few months ago," he said breezily. "It was a present from my father, and I couldn't just take his word for it that there was nothing – _dark_ about it."

She nodded as though she understood, but she didn't. How could she?

"It isn't really that long, anyway," she said. "Just... strange. Last year, you know we – Ron, Harry and I – weren't at school. We were on the run, looking for the Hor – for a way to kill Voldemort."

Malfoy flinched at the name.

"Before I left, I knew I had to protect my family. I told them they had to leave, to go into hiding, or they'd be killed – or worse. But they didn't want to. You know they're Muggles – maybe they didn't realise what Voldemort was, what they were exposing themselves to – what _I_ was exposing them to. So I –" she said the next sentence very quickly – "erased their memories of me and sent them to Australia."

She watched his expression carefully, but it didn't change. He wasn't judging her, but he didn't look like he understood, either.

"After the war was over, I went to Australia to get them back." She paused. "And that's why I said I didn't have any siblings. Because I don't. I never did. But when I found my parents, they had forgotten all about me. So they thought they would like to have a child..." She swallowed. "My mother is expecting another daughter."

Malfoy's gaze was piercing. "And you're not happy about it."

She looked away from him and out the window, scanning the lake with her eyes. "It isn't like that. I've always wanted a little sister. But my parents never did. They always said I was more than enough for them. I begged them for a little sister, but they always said no. They didn't _want_ another child. I know they didn't. One was enough for them... I was enough."

There was an awkward silence.

"I have something I'd been meaning to ask you," Malfoy said eventually. "While we're on the subject of awkward questions..." He seemed to hesitate, then dove in. "Do you pity me?"

She looked at him and laughed. She shouldn't have, but she couldn't help herself.

"Do I pity _you_? Pitying you would require my feeling superior to you. I should probably be asking _you_."

"I don't pity you," he said quietly. "But I don't f –"

"Pity you," she repeated, suddenly more serious. "I – I don't think I do. Forgiveness isn't the same thing as pity, you know. In all honesty... I think you got what you deserved."

He nodded, unruffled. "Promise me you'll never feel sorry for me."

"I promise," she said, the words gliding easily off her tongue. After all, it wasn't going to be a difficult promise to keep, was it?

He seemed satisfied. "What _do_ you think of me, then?" Then he winced. "Or maybe I don't want to know the answer to that."

"No take-backs, Malfoy." She paused. "You know, that's a really hard question to answer."

"In a bad way?"

"In a confusing way," she said. "You're asking me to sum up what I think of you. And what I think of you is really, really long. I hated you, you know. And now... I don't know you all that well. I don't know if I like what I know. It's like it's a new you or something. I think you're trying. I don't hate you anymore, but I don't like you."

There was a long silence. Then Malfoy tilted his head back and laughed a little.

"Well, I deserved that."

"I've got a question, too," she said.

"Ask away."

"How many Slytherins are pureblood?"

"Not many," he replied easily. He paused, then elaborated. "There aren't that many of us to begin with, and we lose some to the other houses at the Sorting. In our year, Pansy, Daphne, Theo and I are pure-bloods. That's less than half of us. Four out of ten is actually unusual; the year under us has no pure-bloods at all. Blaise is practically a pure-blood, but he has some Muggle blood on his father's side, maybe three generations back or something. All the others are half-bloods to a greater degree; one of Goyle's grand-parents is Muggle-born. I think Millicent even has a Muggle for a father. Unless it was a troll."

Hermione smiled at that. Then: "What is Pansy like?"

"Are you serious?"

"You like her," she said. "She's important to you. So she must have some qualities."

He paused. "She does," he said after a moment's thought. "She's clever, even if you won't give her credit for it. She knows what she wants and she knows how to get it. And she's the most loyal person I know. I don't think she would have been in Slytherin if it weren't for me. I mean – she has the cunning, but it isn't her strongest asset.

"We knew each other before Hogwarts. My family knows hers – it's often like that with pureblood families. I already knew Daphne and Theo. Daphne can't stand me, by the way. I think my parents had plans for us – Pansy and I – to eventually marry. In fact, I'm sure of it. I grew up expecting it, and I probably would have gone through with it if it hadn't been for the war. How do you sidestep that? Our friendship would have happened anyway; it wasn't completely forced. But we thought we would spend the rest of our lives together, so we tried to make the best of it.

"Pansy has been like my sister, and there are worse fates than marrying someone who loves you, but it's definitely not going to happen now. My parents have other things to worry about, and she wouldn't have me anyway."

"What happened?"

"I used her," he replied. "I was callous and I lied to her. I pretended I was protecting her, but really, I hurt her more than doing nothing would have. Up until now, she's always been someone I could count on, even when I didn't give her anything in exchange. And she would have gone on like that, because she's loyal and – and selfless. But she isn't suicidal, and when I hurt her, she must have realised she was better off without me. And she's right.

"I don't know how to make you understand what Pansy is to me." He looked down at his palms. "I grew up loving her attention. She was a pure-blood, she was rich; but most of all, she was very good at making herself indispensable. She could make me laugh very easily. She was always trying to please me, but not because I was just as rich and pure-blooded as her. It was because she genuinely liked me, right off the bat."

"I understand."

"No, you don't. How could you? You're a –"

"A Mudblood," she finished for him.

He flinched and looked as though she'd just slapped him. "Don't. I was going to say, a Gryffindor. You're noble and loyal and brave and everything. I'm Slytherin, Granger. It just isn't our way to... to be as selfless as Pansy has always been with me. I never realised how precious it was until she was gone."

"Then you should tell her," she said. "You should tell her you miss her. Tell her she's important to you."

He was silent.

"Do you really believe in pureblood supremacy?"

Again the surprised look. "I..."

"It's a question, Malfoy, not an accusation."

He closed his eyes.

When he remained silent, she added, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Yes." The answer came through clenched teeth, almost unwillingly.

She started to reply when he continued, almost inaudibly and without opening his eyes.

"I did. I believed I was a more worthy wizard because my entire family have been wizards. I believed you were inferior because your parents are Muggles, and I believed Muggles were lowly and ignorant. I hated you for six years because you beat me in every class. You, a..." He opened his eyes and looked at her squarely. "I can't even say the word anymore. Not since..." He nodded at her arm, which they both knew to be mottled with bruises and scars.

"Mudblood," she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch again. "Mudblood," she repeated. "The name your aunt called me when she _tortured _me in your house. Why does that make it any different? You called me it for six years."

Malfoy leaned forward and looked at her intently. "Because, Hermione... Muggleborns scream just as loud as anyone else."

She was the one who winced and leaned away slightly at the memory.

* * *

><p>That night, Hermione dreamed of Malfoy Manor. In her nightmare, she saw through her own eyes, only a few months previously. She saw the gates, the black cloaks, the Snatchers' leering faces. She retraced her steps up the alley, up the few steps, through the door, and down so many corridors. She saw Ron and Harry, their faces oddly blurred, being shoved down into a dungeon, and saw Bellatrix step forward, grinning madly, her voice echoing around Hermione, repeating the same word over and over again.<p>

"Mudblood, Mudblood, Mudblood!"

And she was screaming, experiencing more pain than she had ever thought possible. And at one point, she raised her eyes and – she would never have done this in any other situation – looked up at Malfoy, pleadingly. He held her gaze, but not out of cruelty or enjoyment at her situation. It was more like he couldn't look away. He was pallid, white even, and his eyes never left her face.

And this was when the dream started to divert from reality. Malfoy's eyes suddenly went cold, and his mouth contorted into a horrible, insane grin. He drew out his wand and –

She woke up, breathing hard and sweating. A nightmare? She never had nightmares. She knew that since the war, Ginny had taken to sleeping in the Common Room so she didn't keep waking up her dorm mates with her screams. But even with what had happened at Malfoy Manor, Hermione hadn't had a single nightmare since the war. Maybe it was because she hardly slept at all, and when she did, it was only for a few hours at a time, an exhausted, dreamless, soulless sleep. This was the first nightmare she had had in a long, long time.

It wouldn't be the last.

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><p><strong> I love writing Hermione and Draco in this story, because they're both so hurt. And even though Hermione was tortured – and I really don't think you can just get over that in a couple of weeks, by the way. I understand that because of the Horcrux Hunt she didn't have time to dwell on it, but I think it's something that would have stayed with her all the same – even though she was tortured, I'd say Draco was the one who was the most hurt. All the same, they're both hurt but they've both still got their pride and it's fun trying to work past that. They're afraid to broach touchy subjects like the war but eventually they'll have to – as you'll see later. And they'll have to forgive each other. I'm not sure Draco can forgive himself.<strong>

** Can I tell you something? This fic is a post-war story, originally meant to be more angsty than hopeful. It's the first year after the war. Yes, Harry Potter has won – but at what cost? Fifty people died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Countless others were murdered by the Death Eaters between Voldemort's return to power and the Final Battle. I wanted to depict a world left reeling by its losses, everyone mourning in a different way, with maybe the slightest ray of hope – mostly learning to open up to others. And in this story, there was going to be minimal Draco/Hermione interaction, if any.**

** Like I said in the previous chapter, the first plot I came up with was Lee's. Then in came George after his twin's death. How did he heal? It must have been slow, gradual – how can you ever get over the death of a brother, let alone your twin whom you have never lived apart from? And how did he get closer to Angelina? George's story is planned out throughout the years – because, no matter how long it takes me, I do intend on writing all the years between the end of DH and the Epilogue. Then Alicia found me. When I wrote the first chapter (which was, hopefully, a little sad, because that was what I was aiming for), Alicia jumped it with her paralysed leg and her cheerfulness. And gradually, the cheerfulness faded and Alicia grew, with a dark story of her own.**

** I only remembered Hermione was going back to Hogwarts when I started working on Ginny's character. And after I wrote the scene where Harry gives his wand back to Draco, I started to wonder about Draco as well. I knew he would have changed, just like everyone else? His stay in Azkaban – okay, I completely made that up, but you can see it happening, can't you? – would certainly have done something to him, but beyond that, he would have changed. Not drastically in the sense that he wouldn't be on his knees begging Hermione for forgiveness. He's still got too much pride for that. But I can see him regretting some things.**

** Anyway, I thought – if Draco came back to Hogwarts – that Hermione would notice the change, but I didn't intend for them to ever really talk or end up anywhere close. It just happened. And soon their scenes turned into my favourite scenes to write, much more than Lee's or Alicia's. As you can see, after much internal debate (because I didn't want to be classified as a 'Dramione' story... because there's more to this story than them), I even decided on them as the two leading characters for this fic. And they are the main characters, I suppose. I only hope I'm pulling off their personalities passably.**

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><p><strong>Next chapter is called Blood Calls to Blood and no, no one dies and no one gets hurt.<br>**


	23. Blood Calls to Blood

**Chapter 23**

**23****rd**** November, 1998**

**Blood Calls to Blood**

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><p>Someone knocked at the door.<p>

Three hesitant knocks. A long pause. Another three taps, equally spaced. The pattern repeated itself, and she knew exactly who was rapping it out. _She_ wasn't showing any sign of stopping; if she knew her sister well, she could go on for hours. _Well, let her_, she thought bitterly, but a second later the knocking became unbearable. She stood up abruptly and sat Teddy back in his high chair, shushing him harshly as he let out a disappointed sound. Teddy, her grandson. When had she become old enough for grandchildren? She was only forty-five and felt at least sixty. And there would never be _grandchildren_, she reminded herself. Only one grandchild, a boy.

She had been hoping for a girl.

"Quiet," she warned Teddy, picked her wand up from the table, and headed for the door.

As a child, she would have bravely flung it open. Now, she silently opened it, and made sure that her drawn wand was the first thing Narcissa Malfoy would see.

"Go away," she spat, almost hearing the spiteful fifteen-year-old in her voice. "You're not wanted here."

"Please, Andy," Narcissa said, reaching a slightly shaking hand out as though to take her hand. "I just – "

"Don't," Andromeda said warningly, backing up a step and raising her wand so it was pointing at her sister's chest. "Go away!"

"I thought –"

The wand jabbed forward, forcing Narcissa to take a step back.

"I'm sorry!" she said, almost frantically. "Andy, please, just hear me out – I need to talk to you. For old times' sake –"

Just then, a high-pitched wail rang through the cottage and out the door. Andromeda unwittingly turned back, craning her neck to look at Teddy – and Narcissa pressed forward.

"Here, take my wand, I don't need it – I'm not here to hurt you. We need to talk. Please, Andy – do it for Teddy if not for me. He needs a family."

Andromeda turned back to her and snarled. "A _family_? Yes, he does, because you and your kind took it from him! He has no-one – _no-one_! You killed his grandfather, his father, and his mother! He has only me left – I have only him left – and it's all _your_ fault!"

Unexpectedly, Narcissa nodded, and tears shone in her eyes. Andromeda's arm trembled, but she did not lower her wand.

"Cissy – "

"I know," her sister said tightly. "I know it's our fault, my fault – I know I made the wrong choices. You've lost so much, Andy, and I'm – I'm so sorry. But I'm trying. I'm trying to – I know I can't make up for it, ever, but I don't... I don't want to lose you again. I don't want to lose my sister."

Teddy was outright crying now, and Andromeda could feel her resolve faltering.

"Give me your wand," she spat, hating herself for her weakness.

Narcissa looked like she'd just slapped her. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

For ten seconds, Narcissa showed no signs of complying; she just stared at her sister as though she were insane. Then, slowly, she reached for her wand, plucked it out of her belt and, laying it flat on her palm, held it out to Andromeda, never leaving her eyes. Andromeda picked it up and tucked it up her sleeve.

"You lost me years ago," she said, but stepped aside and let her sister in. "Sit down," she said, not harshly, and took Teddy in her arms, trying to soothe his sobbing. "Shh," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "Shh. It's all right. Andy is here."

"He looks just like you," Cissy said admiringly.

This was true. Some days, Andromeda could hardly bear to look at Teddy. He looked a lot like her, and even more like Bella. Brown hair, a shade or two darker than her own. Steel grey eyes that undeniably came from the Black side of the family. _Bella_'s eyes. _Sirius_' eyes.

Teddy was a replica of toddler pictures of Bella, and Andromeda couldn't stand it. Ever since the boy had realised his parents weren't coming back, he'd stopped morphing. There hadn't been turquoise hair or a duck's nose to draw attention from the Black features.

That had been at the beginning. Teddy still couldn't morph, but she had got used to it. Now she trudged through her days thoughtlessly, feeding, changing and soothing Teddy like a robot. She clung to life only for him. Ted was dead. Dora was dead. If there had been anyone left she trusted to take care of Teddy, she would have died, too. But she couldn't. Teddy needed her. The boy was an orphan. She was all he had.

There was _Harry Potter_, who seemed to think of himself as the kid's godfather. But when had the Saviour ever done anything for Teddy? During the first month, he'd stopped by twice a week. When it became painfully obvious Teddy didn't care for him – at all –, his visits became less frequent. He hadn't been over in weeks, though she occasionally saw him at the Weasleys'. From what she'd heard, he was busy with Auror business. She didn't really care.

There was still family on her side, of course. Cissy, Teddy's great-aunt. Great-aunt. Such a dignified, ageing term. It so suited the cool Narcissa _Malfoy. _There was her son as well. Draco. Some sort of cousin to Teddy. But there was no way she was letting Teddy grow up around the likes of that. Around anyone named Black or Malfoy or Death Eater.

Cissy had written once since the war. A stiff letter of courtesies and polite nothings and _nothing_ else. No apology, no sign that she was anything more than a formal acquaintance. And the bit at the end, asking how Teddy was doing. The nerve she'd had, saying Bella's death had been hard on her.

Andromeda had not owled back, and that was why Cissy had chosen to come in person.

Andromeda wasn't completely closed off from the world, though. Ted's parents still welcomed her to their house and were hopelessly fond of Teddy. Molly Weasley insisted she come over at least once a month to dinner – the ritualistic, extended family dinner that welcomes all the Weasleys, their friends, colleagues, spouses and friends' spouses' colleagues' great-nephews, and Teddy and herself. She went shopping, had friends over for dinner, and lived as normally as she could. She made a conscious effort to do so, for Teddy's sake.

"Mummy," Teddy said suddenly, raising his arms for a hug. His eyes – _Bella's eyes_ – were dry now.

She picked him up from his chair and started rocking him in her arms. "Not Mummy," she corrected him gently.

"Andy!"

"Yes, Andy," she agreed.

"He's adorable," Narcissa said.

"He's too much like Bella."

She planted another kiss on Teddy's forehead and looked deep into his eyes, his wide grey eyes, warmer than Bella's had ever been, and saner...

But for how long?

"You miss her," Narcissa said quietly.

Andromeda's head shot up, and Teddy whined a little at the sudden movement. "What?"

"Bella," Cissy elaborated. "You miss her."

Her lip curled into a sneer. "She _murdered_ my daughter."

"Still."

Andromeda looked down at her grandson again. "I miss the sister I used to play with when we were children," she corrected. "In that respect, I miss you too."

"I've missed you," her sister said, her tone so sincere and her expression so soft that Andromeda couldn't remember a time when she had seen her sister look this... kind. "Maybe we can go back to that time."

She laughed dryly. "Cissy, I was five years old."

"Fourteen," Narcissa corrected her. "You were fourteen when she started going wrong."

"Was I?" Andromeda was thoughtful for a moment. Bellatrix had been in her sixth year then, and Narcissa only in her second. "No, it began the first time she went to Hogwarts."

Narcissa looked thoughtful. She reached out to lightly touch Teddy's tiny fist. "He's lovely," she said. "I remember you when you were born; you looked just like this. I was so jealous of you, because I wanted to always be Daddy's little girl, but Bella liked you right off. Always the perfect eldest daughter... You were too young at the time to remember this now, but she used to drag her pillow and blanket to your room and insist on sleeping with you. When you woke up crying, even before the house-elf reached you, she would be holding you in her arms and soothing you back to sleep."

_It isn't true_, Andromeda wanted to say. _Lies, all lies! She killed Sirius!_ But she knew Narcissa had to be telling the truth. She remembered that Bella, the sister who had been determined to be the son their parents had never had, the one who was fiercely protective of her younger siblings.

"When we were little," Andromeda said slowly, almost unwillingly, "she came back from Hogwarts at Christmas and brought you and me sweets from Honeydukes. She knew which ones we would like best. Dad told us not to eat them all at once or we'd be sick but I didn't listen. I had a terrible stomach-ache that night, but Bella told Dad I had a fever and he believed her; he always believed her. And I wasn't punished."

"I remember that," Narcissa said. "She had brought me Chocolate Frogs and Sugar Quills."

"She went wrong at Hogwarts," Andromeda said again.

Cissy shook her head. "Not immediately. It was when... when _you_ came that she started changing. Hanging out with Avery and the Lestranges... And then it came out that you were seeing Tonks, and I think she went mad. I was almost glad at the time; I was back to being her favourite. She wanted us to do everything together, she promised me she'd always be there for me so I wouldn't end up like you. And she told me that was why she was going to take the Dark Mark."

Andromeda felt the blood drain from her face. "She took it because of me?"

"She took it for _me_," Narcissa corrected her. "But she would have done it anyway. Sooner or later, she would have."

"And you?" Andromeda asked. "Where did you go wrong?"

Narcissa looked away. "I shouldn't have let you leave us."

Narcissa fell silent, and Andromeda looked at her – really looked at her. Took in the silky blond hair, the elegant features, the blue eyes which softened whenever she looked at Teddy. Took in, also, the proud hold of her head, the way she crossed her legs, and the cool smile she could force so easily. So what if the bones of her wrists stuck out more sharply now, what if there were more grey streaks to her hair? Her life hadn't been ruined the way Andromeda's had. Narcissa had made all the wrong choices and had come out of it good as new. The Malfoys had been a Death Eater family, but they had made it through unscathed, and hadn't even been imprisoned, although a significant chunk had been taken out of their fortune to be redistributed to "the cause" – the rebuilding of Hogwarts, the monthly pension to the injured who couldn't work, the rewards to families who had members who had died honourably. They were alive, and it wasn't fair. Why was it that her sister had everything – her house, her husband, her son – when she had lost it all? Ted – and Dora. If it weren't for Teddy, Andromeda herself wouldn't be alive by now.

She loathed him for it.

"It isn't fair," she said out loud.

"It isn't," Cissy said, and then: "Can I hold him? Please."

Andromeda handed her grandson over almost without thinking. Cissy gathered him up in her arms, holding him close, and gazed at him with unbelievable tenderness.

"He's adorable," she said for the second time. Then, "Oh, Andy! Please say something."

"What is there to say?"

"Andy..." Narcissa looked pained. Then she said, quietly, "I know you lost everything during the war. Your husband, your daughter and your son-in-law. And your sister. But, Andromeda... Couldn't this... Could we maybe draw a lesson from what happened?" She balanced Teddy on one arm and reached out to cover Andromeda's hand with hers. "I don't want to lose another sister."

"Took you long enough."

Narcissa recoiled as if struck, then relaxed and soothingly hushed Teddy, who had started to moan. "He's lovely. I... Would you let him meet Draco?"

"Your _son_?" Her voice rose. "Your foul _son_ –"

"_Don't_ speak about him like that!"

"He was a Death Eater."

"Yes."

She said it quietly, and though Andromeda had suspected it, the confirmation still gave her a shock.

"Then how can you even ask?"

"Draco is my son," Narcissa said. "You are a mother and a grandmother, Andy, you can understand that. I love him, I love him more than I ever loved myself. And I hate myself, I hate Lucius, I hate the Dark Lord for what we have made Draco become... But he is still human, he is still young, he can still be someone whose life was worth saving. Andy... I am so sorry for what Bella and I, for what the Death Eaters did to you and your family. There's nothing fair about how things turned out. You were brave and your family was brave. I only tried to save my own skin, our skin... And I'm still doing that. You must find me despicable... and I am... but Draco doesn't have to be."

"And you think that seeing Teddy would change him?"

"I think that seeing Teddy grow up would keep him from changing," she corrected. "Draco grew up as an only child. He never knew his only cousin. The only aunt he ever met was Bella, and the only children his age he spent time with as a boy were sons and daughters of Lucius' friends. I think he grew up too fast... But he isn't quite an adult yet. He's eighteen years old, he's seen enough death to get rid of the innocence of a child... But being an adult isn't only darkness, and he doesn't know that yet. He thinks the world is hardly worth living in. I think Teddy could lighten up what's left of his childhood and make him see the world as it is."

"How is it?" Andromeda said bitterly

She took Teddy back into her arms; her movement was so brusque she would have snatched him away if Narcissa had opposed the smallest resistance. But she didn't.

"From your description, his vision of the world already seems quite accurate."

Narcissa bit her lip. "Even in your case," she said slowly, as though wondering whether Andromeda would strike her down for her daring, "some things are bright enough to keep you alive. Teddy is that ray of sunlight which makes it all worth it to you, isn't he?"

"He doesn't make it worth it," Andromeda snapped. "He makes it necessary, but he can't even make it bearable and he'll never make me enjoy it. My world _is_ only darkness, Cissy, and whose fault is that?"

"Andy, I am so sorry," Narcissa said again. "I –"

"I don't know how you can have the gall to talk about her in my own house," Andromeda went on, feeling her fury build up. "Your _dear_ Bella, whom you followed around like a faithful dog, who loved you and showered you with praise and presents, who protected you from our father when he went into his rages – and you would have me believe you didn't know her true nature? And _my_ Nymphadora, my daughter – how _can_ you? You're sorry, you say, but you've never spoken a true word in your life, and you've never felt a true emotion, either! You're cold, Narcissa."

"I know I failed you," Cissy said quietly, looking hard and cold and composed as ever; but her hands shook slightly in her lap, and Andromeda felt her anger cool down somewhat. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"No," Andromeda whispered, "I don't think I can." Her sister looked stricken. "But Teddy will need a family."

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><p><strong>Andromeda is one of the secondary characters. Her plot is given less space than <strong>**others', but it isn't any less important. Teddy is a victim of the war; both his parents were ****killed in the Final Battle. Both his parents were heroes. And Andromeda lost all that remained of her family to the war – her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law. She only has her grandson left. I didn't expect her to turn to the Black side of her family for help. But I could see Narcissa reaching out, just maybe. Hence the chapter.**

**Next chapter is Wednesday, I think, and the one after that is next Sunday.  
><strong>


	24. Full Moon

** I can't apologise enough. I really had no way to update before and I'm sorry.**

** As a result, this is a massive update of four chapters (the two I missed, and the two scheduled for this week), of which three have Draco and Hermione. Forgive me?**

** Oh, and I might as well warn you – this chapter is a complete deviation from pretty much everything that's happened before. Though it does remind the Lee stuff. Anyway, don't worry, everything will be back on track for the next chapters.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 24<strong>

**Full Moon**

****24th November, 1998 ****

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><p>Most of the time, he had no idea what he was doing here.<p>

Like so many others, he had answered Kingsley's call and had joined the Aurors mid-June. At the time, he wasn't sure why he did it. There was no point to Quidditch practices anymore, since matches were suspended indefinitely. But he had never even considered a job at the Ministry, and yet he had jumped at the opportunity. Maybe, like Lee, he unknowingly thirsted for revenge. Revenge for whom, though? There was Fred, of course. Katie, too – he had almost cried when he had heard she had woken up. Alicia, whom he hadn't seen recently – she was fighting her own demons, he reasoned. And for Lee – Lee's father, Merlin, Lee had been silent in class for days after Katie had told him what Rookwood had done.

He didn't think it really was revenge he wanted. Nevertheless, he had stuck at it when about thirty had dropped out after three weeks of lessons. With the possible exceptions of Harry and Neville, everyone found the lessons not only difficult but also and especially dull, and after a week of being battered around by senior Aurors during "field exercises," your enthusiasm was ground into the dust, never to be found again. Kingsley had invited all those who had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts to enter Auror training, but that didn't mean he didn't submit them to gruelling tests. It was just that the tests were continuous, and he didn't fire anyone – he waited for them to drop out.

It worked for a lot of people. The remaining twelve Aurors-in-training were the most tenacious, the ones who had a motive behind their choice, the ones who actually liked it, and the ones who could take the bullying if they just told themselves, _I'll show them_. And then there was him. He didn't really like the lessons, he didn't want revenge, he didn't want to help society by doing this, and he didn't have a passion for the job. So what the hell was he doing here?

He figured it was because he had nothing else to do.

He had been paired up with Neville, which he found amusing, if not always easy. The Longbottom kid had a heck of a lot more confidence than he'd remembered from his Hogwarts years, even though he was still too idealistically selfless. He was a nice challenge for him during their duels, because he knew a lot of good defensive spells even though he always hesitated when it was time to attack. That was Neville's prime weakness, really – he was too kind and always worrying about his partner. There was also his clumsiness.

But Neville, as a whole, was a braver person than he was, he reasoned. He held on to his beliefs and had a moral ethic that you could only admire. The only time he had even faltered in these beliefs was when the Death Eater hunt had started and he had hesitated to pick a Lestrange to chase down. A second later, he had leaned across and said, in a firm voice, "What think of Avery?" So that was Neville.

Lee, on the other hand... Well, Lee had signed up for only one reason. It wasn't even a secret; the only ones who didn't know it were the ones who should, namely the senior Aurors, the Head of the department and the Minister. Sometimes he felt like they should be told... and then he would catch Lee's gaze and chicken out. Because Lee was bloody scary these days. He threw himself into his work like it was all that mattered in life. He didn't joke anymore, and he hardly ever spoke if it wasn't to cast a spell (and even then, he had nonverbal magic down to a T). And, damn it, he was good. He could disarm and stun any of the other trainees blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back in under ten seconds – with the exception of Harry, whose reflexes were exceptional.

Actually, that was pretty much what he was doing right now. The senior Aurors who had accepted to teach the lessons had joined forces that day and decided it would be fun to test their trainees' abilities through at little game. At one end of the room – and this was where he was –, some had their hands tied behind their back and their wands on the floor. At the other end – Neville was among them –, they had been Silenced but had their wands. They were all supposed to magically attack the ones standing, unmoving, in the middle of the room, who were blindfolded but armed and able to speak. They had to figure out who was casting which spell, deflect it and send it back. This was where Lee and Harry were.

A hex hit him in the back, bringing him to the ground in surprise. "Gotcha, Wood."

Oliver looked up at Jenkins and grinned. "Whoops."

"Pay attention," the senior Auror griped.

"Yeah, yeah," Oliver said, trying to stand up and finding that it was pretty hard to do with your hands tied behind your back.

Instead, from the floor, he aimed (and that was also difficult without your wand) a Stinging Hex at Lee. Lee's ongoing Shield Charm easily deflected it, but he seemed at a loss as to where it had come from. He turned hesitantly to the left, then seemed to figure _What the hell_ and shot a Blasting Charm at Ron, who was right next to Oliver.

This was a fun game, Oliver decided.

But his fun wasn't going to be allowed to last. There were two huge slamming noises as Lesman, another Senior Auror, slammed the door open, then closed, making the blindfolded trainees in the middle jump. Lesman spoke to Jenkins in a low voice for a second, and they both frowned. Jenkins made a _come here_ movement with his finger at Oliver.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked when he reached the two Aurors. Had something happened to his family?

Jenkins shook his head. "Get your partner, pack your things and get ready to go. Avery's been spotted in Nottinghamshire."

"Nottinghamshire?" Oliver repeated. "What makes you think he'll stay there?"

"He's got business there," Jenkins said. "He's meeting up tonight with an old pal of his, possibly previously affiliated with Lord Voldemort. Our informer is tailing him, but he has no idea how dangerous Avery is. So go, and quickly. Remlin will be waiting for you in front of the building."

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><p>It was a full moon tonight. They were huddled behind a scrawny bush on the top of a hill, gazing down at the street far below, effectively concealed by Remlin's Disillusionment Charm. It wasn't strong enough that they couldn't see each other, but in the dark and especially at a distance, it would work. The November air was cold and uninviting, but they hardly felt it. Excitement kept Neville's eyes bright and alert and Oliver's heart racing. Carr Remlin, the Senior Auror who was on the Avery case with them, seemed collected enough, but the tenseness in the set of his jaw told Oliver he was in much the same state. <em>The thrill of the chase,<em> Oliver thought. This was it. Their big chance. If they blew it, they probably wouldn't be able to track Avery down again for months.

"It's just struck ten," Remlin breathed. "He should be here any second."

As if on cue, two silhouettes appeared at one end of the street, lit only by a single Muggle lamppost*. One was a man, short and heavy-set, in black robes: obviously a wizard. The other trotted after him calmly. It was an animal, shaped somewhat like a dog, except it was bigger than any dog Oliver had ever seen.

"Is that him?" he asked. "Is it Avery?"

"Can't be one hundred percent sure, but it looks like it," Remlin said grimly. "With a huge pet dog. Wonder what he's doing with it."

Just then, the huge pet dog lifted its muzzle to the heavens and let out a terrible howl that was more like a human's scream than a dog's and sent a shiver up Oliver's spine.

"Holy shite," Oliver breathed. "That's some dog."

"Godric," Remlin murmured beside him, staring in horror at the silhouettes. "Both of you, back off."

"Why?" Neville asked. "What's it doing?"

Remlin turned to look at them; he looked deathly pale in the moonlight. "I have no idea," he said, his voice hollow, "but I know what it _is_. Have you ever heard of the rumours about Voldemort having a werewolf army?"

Oliver felt the blood drain from his face. "You mean –" He looked at the silhouette again. From this distance, it really did look like a big dog. "Are you sure?"

Remlin looked up at the sky. "It's a full moon tonight," he said pointedly. "And that... _thing_ is a werewolf. I've never seen one up close before, but I don't need to get any closer than this to know. It's a werewolf. I don't know what Avery is doing to control it and I don't care. You two have got to get the hell out of here. Disapparate or – do whatever you want, but leave. I'll stay and deal with them."

Oliver thought he would very much like to go to bed, but Neville shook his head, eyes blazing.

"Are you kidding? This is our job as much as it is yours. Avery is our catch."

"I appreciate the bravado, Neville, but this is real life and that down there is a werewolf. If it catches a whiff of your scent, you're dead. Your life is worth much, much more than mine, so just leave this to me, will you?"

"No, I won't," Neville said, drawing himself up to full height and raising his voice.

It was a mistake. Because though there was no way that Avery could hear them at this distance, the wolf did. Oliver could have sworn he saw its ears flick toward them a second before it gave another one of its screams and started running straight toward their hiding place.

"Shit!" Remlin said. "Go on, Disapparate, _now_!"

"We won't!" Neville said again, not bothering to lower his voice – what was the point anymore? "Go on, Remlin. Plan!"

He sounded panicked, but the last word rang out with confidence, and Remlin seemed to gather his wits enough to understand. He drew a breath.

"I stay here. I try to keep the werewolf focused on me. Neville, you go after Avery. Get him. Oliver, you find somewhere to hide where you can back up either one of us if in need. If we can retain at least a small element of surprise, maybe we can get out of this alive. Now go. Scram!"

Neville went; in a flash he was tumbling down the hill heading straight for Avery, still effectively concealed by Remlin's Disillusionment Charm. Oliver followed until he reached a rock that jutted out from the side of the hill, where he could keep an eye on both Remlin and Neville. He focused more on Remlin, who was going to have to face the snarling, screaming ball of teeth and claws that was heading straight for him.

He thought he saw Remlin close his eyes and utter a quick prayer before he uncast his Disillusionment Charm, but he couldn't have sworn it. Remlin leaped out in front of the werewolf, wand out, and started shooting spells. Oliver, his heart racing, tried to calm himself by identifying each one. Red burst. Green sparks. Blue jet of light. Red burst again. A blindingly bright white blast... After this one, there rose a scream from the ground below, and Oliver ripped his gaze from Remlin. It was a different kind of scream, a scream of fury, coming from Avery. Neville was duelling him, shooting curses at him faster than light and weaving between the other's attacks. But Oliver didn't take the time to admire his partner, because he had just realised the flaw in Remlin's plan. He could _see_ Neville.

When he had uncast his own Disillusionment Charm, Remlin had also deactivated the ones he had cast over Neville and Oliver.

They were now, all three of them, perfectly visible and perfectly vulnerable.

Oliver barely had time to get a hold of his wand before he felt sharp teeth sink into the flesh of his shoulder, causing unbearable pain. He screamed and dropped his wand, falling to his knees as the creature – the werewolf – bit him again. Then again. And again.

Oliver dimly heard Remlin's cry of "_Stupefy!_" before everything went dark.

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><p><strong>Don't ask where that came from... Please don't.<strong>

** (Okay, okay. It actually came from the future. A character – Alicia, actually – has a subplot in later years that I thought would make more sense if someone she knew were a werewolf.)**

** (And it deepens Oliver's storyline.)**

** Listen to** Vicious Rumors' Thrill Of The Hunt** for this chapter. (What? I like it.)**


	25. Counter Clockwise

**If you were redirected to this after clicking on an "Alert" link, click back to chapter 24; you probably haven't read it.**

**There's a line break in the middle of the chapter that just refused to cooperate. -' I hope it'll show up.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 25<strong>

**Counter Clockwise**

**27****th**** November, 1998**

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><p>He had been avoiding her.<p>

At first she hadn't been sure. They didn't have that many lessons together. Maybe he just didn't have enough homework to justify going to the library. Maybe he'd got bored. But the day he walked into Potions and sat down right at the front of the class, in the seat that was farthest away from her, she knew. He never looked at her, never spoke to her, never stood within a three-feet radius of her, and hadn't since their little game of questions – since her first nightmare, maybe a week previously. And she just couldn't figure out what had happened.

She had thought... She had believed Malfoy was changed. Everyone had been changed by the war. Most came out of it worse for the wear – tired, bitter, saddened. Malfoy was all of those, and yet, compared to what he had been before – arrogant, presumptuous, cold –, he seemed... better. He occasionally smiled. He talked to her like a civilised person. He had stopped calling her, or anyone, a Mudblood.

Now he had just stopped talking to her, period.

So that day, when she entered the Potions classroom, she froze in shock. Because Malfoy was there. He was facing away from her, but there was no mistaking the smooth blond hair and too-skinny figure. He was standing, looking at Professor Bilmerk. And he was standing at her desk. The one he hadn't been to since their almost-fight. Hell, she had barely _seen_ him since that day, let alone talked to him. And yet here he was. Like nothing had happened. Like he had been there every Potions class for the past week.

He turned to face her when he heard her approach, and something passed over his face as she wordlessly placed her bag on the desk next to his. Fear? No, that wasn't it. It wasn't even hesitation. Uneasiness?

"Hey," he said quietly, his eyes assessing.

She was quiet as she opened her bag, drew out the essay that was due, and pretended to be engrossed in reading the instructions for the day's potion. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked stricken.

"Granger," he said. "Are you all right?"

_Guilt_, she realised. That was what she'd been trying to pinpoint. Not fear, but guilt. Draco Malfoy, feeling guilty. Who would have guessed?

She sat down, looking straight ahead at the board, her neck stiff. And still didn't reply.

"Okay," Malfoy said "I suppose you aren't. Look, Granger – we need to talk."

"I don't see why."

"Don't be childish," he snapped. "You know perfectly well why." He seemed on the verge of adding something, but then he turned and half-strode, half-stalked to the cupboards at the other end of the room to gather the ingredients.

Hermione sighed. Of course she knew why he wanted to talk. They had almost been getting along. They were a far cry from being friends, but she could look at him without feeling angry or annoyed. She could smile at him. She could, sometimes, laugh at his comments. And she could work with him. That was the best part, really. He was an excellent Potions partner. He knew what he was doing but didn't – couldn't, really – order her about. They worked well together, and Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had found that statement to be true for someone else.

They hadn't worked together in weeks. Bilmerk hadn't said anything when they had suddenly stopped being partners. He had looked like... like he had been expecting it. And that, more than anything, was what was pissing her off. Because she had been an idiot. She had believed in Malfoy.

"Look, Granger... I'm sorry."

Her head whipped around and Malfoy leaned back a half-inch, his eyes widening just a fraction, almost dropping the vials and ingredients he held in his arms.

"Oh no you _don't_," she hissed through clenched teeth. "You've already tried to pull that one on me, Malfoy. It's quite obvious you haven't changed _at all_. I don't know why you've been avoiding me for the past three weeks, but I'm guessing it has something to do with the fact that _we can't stand each other_."

His eyes hardened. "I never said I was nice. I never said we were going to become best friends overnight. Hell, I don't even want us to be best friends." He looked down at his desk. "I don't know what I was thinking. But – I suppose I figured you were the one who was most likely to give me a second chance."

This was the new Malfoy, the one she didn't know how to deal with. The one who could, like his old self, annoy her like no-one else, and then seconds later tug at her heartstrings with such skill he had to be doing it on purpose.

"Malfoy," she started, watching him fill the cauldron with water and light the fire. "I don't think –"

"I'm sorry," he said, not lifting his eyes from the cauldron. "I wasn't avoiding you. I thought you wanted me to avoid you. That day... _you_ ran away..."

"Yes," she said. "I lost it. You can hardly hold it against me."

"I don't," he said. "But I thought I should stay away."

"Then why did you come back?"

"Because you were sending me death glares that told me I wasn't doing the right thing."

She smiled. "Malfoy –"

"Why do you always call me that?" he asked, straightening and turning to – _glare_ at her.

She stared. "Why do – what?"

"Malfoy," he clarified. "I mean, I know it's my name. But it's not like I got to choose. And I hate – not my name, exactly. Just the way everyone says it. With a sneer."

"Draco," she said, deliberately putting a sneer into her voice.

He did his almost-smile, the one where his eyes laughed but his mouth hardly moved at all. "I almost like that one better." And then he really smiled. "Hermione."

"Draco," she said back.

"Hermione," he repeated. His gaze softened. "Hermione, I'm sorry."

She felt her face heat up, though maybe it was only because she was so close to the fire. She bent over the cauldron and sprinkled the first ingredients in.

"I know."

"Hermione?" he said again, as a question this time.

"Yeah?" she said cautiously, reaching into the cauldron to stir the beginning of the potion.

"Can I ask you something?"

His tone was suddenly awkward. Hermione stopped stirring and looked up.

"I'm listening."

He looked nervous. He was playing with his wand, rolling it between his fingers, deliberately avoiding her gaze.

"That day... The Room of Requirement, when Crabbe... I – I thought I was going to die. And you..." Suddenly he looked up. "You saved our lives."

His face had lost what little colour it had still held, but his eyes were piercing. Filled with confusion, looking for answers, but dark and _piercing_.

"_Why_?"

The question startled her. She had been expecting another apology, maybe, or gratefulness.

"I – I don't know," she said truthfully. "We... We couldn't – it's not like we could have just – just turned our backs and left you to die!"

"I would have done it," he said quietly, still holding her gaze.

She was the first to look away and back at the potion. "I'm not like you, Draco." Then, after a moment of unbearable silence: "It was Harry's idea, not mine. Why are you asking me?"

"You're much easier to talk to."

"Why didn't you want to identify Harry at your house?" she countered.

"As surprised as it may make you feel, Granger, I don't actually enjoy watching my aunt torture people."

She drew in a sharp breath. It had been a while ago, but never long enough, and the memory still stung as hotly as the scars on her arm did when she rubbed what was supposed to be healing cream on them.

Draco realised his _faux pas_ and said, quietly, "Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"Yeah," she said senselessly, absent-mindedly stirring the potion.

After another awkward silence, he reached out and laced his fingers through hers, briskly stirring the potion for her. "Counter-clockwise, not clockwise!"

* * *

><p>Hermione was surprised at how easy it was to slip in and out of the comfort zone with Malfoy – Draco. She suspected it was because of their not-so-comfortable past. Their present-day personalities were compatible, and she sometimes found herself enjoying his company, but even the slightest mention of their past dug a bridge-less gap between them and led to awkwardness. They would go from friendly teasing to heavy silences in less than a minute.<p>

The walk to the library after Potions class was one of those silent moments, in a thoroughly awkward way. Hermione was debating which would be a better conversation topic between Parvati Patil's newest conquest and the ghoul living in Ron's attic when Draco said, out of the blue:

"There's a Quidditch match tomorrow."

"Really?" she said, grateful for a chance to speak, even about something that had never really interested her.

She had been vaguely aware that the Quidditch season was nearing. Ginny, who had been named Captain and was loving every second of it, had spent enough time raving about the hopelessness of some people at try-outs ("I don't know how Harry did it" had been her exact words), and later showing up late at the Great Hall in the evenings because of "practise, you know how it is." Hermione couldn't say she did, but she didn't mind Ginny's frequent absences. If that was what had allowed some colour to return to her friend's cheeks, and if that was what had drawn that laugh out of her just a couple of days ago, then she was a fervent supporter of Quidditch.

"It's Ravenclaw playing," Draco went on, eyeing her. "Against Slytherin."

"Ah," she said.

"Will you be watching?"

She slowed her pace thoughtfully. "I don't think so. It's not like I'm a big Quidditch fan, and if Gryffindor isn't playing... I don't know."

Draco was quiet for a moment, and she wondered what she had said for the awkwardness to return.

"Does Slytherin have a good team, then?" she asked to break the silence.

"Pretty decent, I think. But Ravenclaw has managed to gather some pretty hot players this year, from what I hear. It's going to be a challenge."

She could hear the smile in his voice. "You really do like Quidditch, don't you?" she asked as they reached the library.

"Yeah," he said, pushing the door open. "Do you have homework to do?"

"Not yet."

"Great. Can you do my Transfiguration?" he asked as he set his bag down and pulled back a chair to sit in.

She looked at him incredulously. His expression was completely deadpan, but after a moment or two his eyes sparkled and crinkled up at the corners, though his mouth remained in a thin, flat line.

She hit him on the shoulder. "Quit teasing me, you idiot."

"I'm quite serious," he said, still unsmiling. "Don't I look serious?"

"You're actually laughing inside."

"No, really," he insisted. "I have two feet of Transfiguration due for Monday and what with there being a match this weekend, naturally I won't have time to do it. And if you're not going to the match..." His voice trailed off and he looked pointedly at her.

"Dream on, Draco," she said. "Is it the one about Conjuration?"

He nodded. "First dated occurrences, theory, how long conjured objects can last with examples, give five famous examples of Conjuration gone wrong, conclude."

"I spent _hours_ on that one," she said, shaking her head. "It was awful. So it's a definite no."

He shrugged, not really looking surprised, and leaned back in his chair. A strand of hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it out of the way, looking annoyed.

"Too bad."

"I suppose I could lend you my notes, though," she said. "But you're going to have to do the actual writing. Conjuration is important for the Transfiguration N.E.W.T.s, anyway, and..." She paused and cocked her head at him. "Hey."

"Hey?"

"I never thought – what do you want to do after you pass your N.E.W.T.s?"

He looked at her strangely. "What do you mean?"

"Do you have a career in mind?"

"Well, yes," he said unsmilingly. "I've been thinking what a splendid idea it would be for me to become Minister for Magic. Don't you agree? No-one will hesitate to vote for me."

"I didn't mean that," she said. "I was talking about –"

"What does it matter?" he interrupted her. "Look, Granger, I never thought... Last year, I figured I'd always be a Death Eater, you know? I thought it would define my future. I'd either serve the Dark Lord until I died or spend the rest of my days in Azkaban. I never thought I could..." He trailed off, looking down at his palms awkwardly. "There's no work for Death Eaters," he finished curtly.

"Draco," she said softly, reaching out to cover one of his hand with hers. "You're free, now."

"It doesn't matter," he said, pulling his hand away.

The rejection stung, though she didn't know why.

"Draco –"

"The only reason I came back this year was because my mother asked me to, Granger," he cut in.

"But what will you _do_ if you don't have a job?"

She wondered if her tone really did sound that aghast, and decided it probably did. She couldn't imagine a life without working. Wasn't that why she had come back for her seventh year – to have a decent career, one she was ready for and one she deserved?

"It's not like I need to work to live," Draco said casually. "My family has enough money."

"Even with what the Minister took from you to rebuild Hogwarts?"

He looked at her, and something in his dark eyes made her look away and say:

"Forget it. Here, take these." She handed him her notes on Conjuration, and couldn't resist asking, "Did you even do the Potions essay that was due today?"

He seemed grateful for the change in subject and, his eyes flitting over her notes, he said, "Of course."

"Did you copy it off anyone?"

"No."

"So you like Potions better than Transfiguration?"

"What is this, a Ministry interrogation? I feel like I'm back at the trial."

The words, casually thrown, hit Hermione like a rebuke.

"Oh," she said, her voice suddenly very quiet. "Sorry."

"Salazar," Draco said, sitting up. "Are you going to go all weepy on me?"

"Of course not," she snapped. "Now will you start that essay or what?"

"Or what," Draco said, but he leaned under the table and took a quill out of his bag.

On a fresh piece of parchment, he started organising Hermione's ideas through messy but readable sketches, complete with arrows and crossed-out words. And he was more or less silent for the rest of the hour, occasionally stopping his work to ask her what this sentence was supposed to mean. This was the silent understanding that Hermione had missed. She liked having someone there, even if – maybe especially if – they didn't say anything. There was something about Draco's presence. He seemed to radiate _feeling_. Not warmth or confidence or anything Hermione particularly liked. It was something... different.

Their free period was over too soon. She hardly heard the bell chime, but Draco scraped his chair back and slipped his start of an essay into his bag. The chime marked the end of their time together. Outside of Potions, their only shared class, the library was the only place they ever saw each other. Before leaving – he always left without a word –, Draco unexpectedly smiled at her and said, quietly:

"You should come tomorrow. To the match, I mean."

He turned to leave, and he had already disappeared behind a row of bookshelves when it hit her. She shot up from her seat, not bothering to gather her things, and followed him, almost running.

"Draco!" she called. "Draco – wait up."

He was a few steps from the door to the library when he stopped and turned to look at her. "Yes?" he said, looking confused.

"Is the reason – are you – how did..." She trailed off, not sure how to say it.

"Granger, I have class right now –"

"So do I," she snapped. "Look – did you make the Quidditch team this year?"

That was when he smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that showed his teeth and reached his eyes.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," he said. "Why did you _think_ I was spending less and less time in the library? Practise takes up a lot of time. And by the way, I'm actually Captain."

"Oh," she said. "What? How?"

"Cursed some poor fifth-year and nicked his badge, obviously," Draco said airily, holding out his hand to her, palm up.

She stared at the glinting silver of the badge.

"I'm joking, Hermione," he said, smirking. "Did you really believe me? Merlin. I got it same as anyone else, in my Hogwarts letter."

"Oh," she said, feeling stupid. "Right."  
>"If that's all," he said, "I should be going." And once more he turned to leave.<p>

"Just one more thing," she said. "I'll be there tomorrow. And – I'll be rooting for you."

He froze in his tracks but didn't turn back to face her. After a few moments, he said, his voice low:

"Thank you." Then: "Wait, does that mean you won't be able to do my Transfiguration essay?"

She shoved him forward. "Oh, be quiet. Don't you have a class to go to?"

* * *

><p><strong> There are still some things to get out of the way to clear the air between them, and I really like that.<strong>


	26. Pink and Silver

** This chapter was greatly inspired by listening to Flyleaf's **Dear My Closest Friend**, with some contribution by Jenifer Lopez' **The One **and, strangely enough, Eminem & Rihanna's** Love the Way You Lie** (only for Rihanna's parts, though).**

** Okay, I _love_ this chapter. Seriously. I didn't lie, there's some Draco. There's some Hermione. And there's also a lot of another character... and I really like her.**

_Disclaimer:_** I don't own anything.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 26<strong>

**Pink and Silver**

****28th November, 1998****

* * *

><p>It was cold already. They had had a warm summer, though no-one had really been in the mood to enjoy it. September and October had also been crisp, warm, and welcoming months, the sun shining on the Hogwarts grounds in an attempt to make everyone forget the darkness that had happened there. During the first week of November, however, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and now it was downright chilly. The students had stopped pulling at the necks of their robes to relieve themselves of the heat and were now prone to drawing their cloaks tighter around themselves. Some had even already started wearing gloves and scarves.<p>

"You know," Ginny said, "The Slytherins have been keeping a low profile this year."

"I'd noticed," she said absently, scanning the pitch on the lookout for when the teams would come out.

"Not that," Ginny said. "I mean, I don't even know who's on the team. I've never seen them practice."

"They've got a decent team this year," she said, the words escaping her stupidly.

She kept her eyes on the pitch, but even so, she could feel Ginny's eyes boring into her.

"Who told you that?"

"No one" she lied. "Just something I've heard said." Then, because she couldn't help it: "And they say the Captain is real good, too."

Ginny sounded doubtful when she spoke. "Slytherin's always had a decent team, but a 'real good Captain' isn't what I'd call any of their players from the previous years."

"Yeah, well. I suppose we'll see."

"Hermione," Luna said out of the blue, "That's a beautiful clip."

She stiffened, and her hand immediately rose to finger the clip in her hair. She'd tied it back into a ponytail to keep the wind from slapping it into her face, and almost in an afterthought she'd added a single hairpin to keep the shorter locks of hair, the ones that wouldn't be tied back into a ponytail, out of her face as well. It was a slim, silver pin, the type you could buy in any Muggle accessories shop. Hermione had had it for years, but for some reason, she couldn't recall a single time she had worn it at school. She had put it on today for ridiculous, childish reasons...

There was a small, green, plastic gem on one end of the pin.

"Silver and green," Luna said, echoing her thoughts. She really was a Ravenclaw. "Do you like green?"

"This?" Hermione said, pulling the pin out of her hair, staring at it and still avoiding her friends' gazes. "Oh. An aunt gave me a dozen of these years ago for Christmas. Surely you've seen me wearing them before."

"I don't think so," Luna said. "Here they come."

"Here they – " Hermione looked back at the pitch and saw fourteen figures of various sizes stride onto the field, following Madam Hooch in an orderly line. She slipped the pin back into her hair. "Oh," she said, wondering how long it would take for Ginny to realise who the tall, blond boy leading the green-clad figures was.

She focused on the rest of the team and realised she only knew two of them, neither of whom had been on the team in previous years. Theodore Nott, a Chaser she would guess, since he wasn't carrying a bat and he was probably too tall to be a Seeker, too slight to be a Keeper. She had never seen him play Quidditch that she could recall, and he didn't exactly look happy to be out on the pitch. And Parkinson. She wondered why they were there. Out of loyalty to Draco? The other four members of the team were much younger, second years that looked titchy enough to be first years. There was only one other girl. They looked nervous.

_A decent team?_ Hermione wondered, feeling her heart sink. That was when she realised how badly she wanted Slytherin to win this match. She tried to catch Draco's eye, but he was standing in front of his team members, facing them and sternly saying – something.

"Holy shit," Ginny said in a sort of awed voice. "_Malfoy_ is Captain?" Then: "A real good Captain? Hermione, you'll need to check your sources."

She watched, though, eyes alert as the Ravenclaw Captain shook Draco's hand. He was his team's Keeper, taller and heavier than Draco, and it was obvious that he was trying to crush the other's hand. A flash of annoyance visible even at this distance crossed Draco's expression, and Basset – the Ravenclaw Captain, Luna said – dropped his hand as though he'd been burnt. Behind Draco, Pansy leaned over to say something to Theo. Draco looked like he was telling them off, or maybe giving his team a last word of advice, and then the whistle blew.

After that it was like any other Quidditch match Hermione had ever attended. A confused blur, too fast to follow in its every detail had not the commentator been very dedicated and Ginny, beside her, even more so; bellowing whenever a point was scored.

"Bloody hell," she said at one point. "Ravenclaw is being murdered!"

"Are they playing badly?" Hermione asked.

"No," Ginny said, "but Slytherin is playing better. Merlin. Malfoy, Captain – now that's an idea. Wonder whether he's bought them all Firebolts or something?"

"Don't think he can afford to anymore," Hermione said."

"They do seem unusually fast, though," Ginny said thoughtfully. "Maybe it's their weight. All those second years are so small."

There was one major difference with the rest of the matches she'd attended. Her attention, this time, wasn't focused on Harry – Dementors, a cursed broom, the rain in his eyes – but on Draco. She found herself holding her breath whenever a Bludger came close, or when he suddenly darted down as though he'd seen the Snitch. The rest of the time she watched the Chasers, Nott, Parkinson and the only second-year girl. They rarely missed their shot, and after the first two Hermione noticed that the Slytherins on the bleachers cheered just as loudly as the Ravenclaws, forgetting their initial reservations about their team. The Keeper, another second year, was surprisingly good at the post for his size, his speed and agility making up for his titchiness. The two Beaters weren't much good at hitting the other team – they weren't strong enough – but they were fast enough to deflect the Bludgers aimed at their fellow team members.

After forty-five minutes of play and two false alerts, Draco spotted the Snitch. It was a spectacular catch, a neck-to-neck chase with the Ravenclaw Seeker, and when he rose up toward the skies with the Snitch in his outstretched hand, Slytherin went wild with enthusiasm.

"Damn," Ginny said as they filed out of the bleachers. "That's two good teams we'll have to face. I just hope Hufflepuff are really bad this year."

* * *

><p>"Draco," a voice he knew too well said. "That was a good match."<p>

He turned, looked at her. Everything about her was warmly familiar. Soft, soft hair, almost black in the darkness of the dungeons. Bright eyes that seemed to capture and reflect the flickering candlelight as they looked – impassively – straight at him.

"It was," he agreed cautiously. "You played well."

"So did you."

There was a pause. An uncomfortable one. Her gaze was heavy with reproach, her face expressionless.

"Let's go outside," he said impulsively. "Have a walk like we used to."

She winced, and for a second Draco thought she would refuse. He wouldn't blame her, either. Not after what he'd done to her. How could he ever make her understand he'd only wanted to protect her?

But: "All right," she said.

She fell in step with him. She was almost as tall as him and matched his stride easily. Even when they had been children, she always tagged along beside him. After a few seconds, he felt her warm fingers slip between his, and he remembered the first time a round, chubby hand had first found its way into his, when they were six years old.

_ "My name is Draco Malfoy." "I know," a little girl with wide eyes says. "Mine is Pansy."_

"For old times' sake," she said.

He squeezed her hand.

They walked, as had been their habit, to the lake. The lake was a place Draco appreciated and Pansy loved. Last year, they had come here often. Pansy loved skipping stones over the water and watching the ripples she made. She could make her stones skip up to six or seven times. She had tried to teach Draco, who had gamely agreed to try and less gamely failed.

When they reached the side of the lake, Pansy stepped forward until the tips of her shoes were submerged and the hem of her robes brushed against the water and stooped down to pick up three round, flat stones. Draco, out of habit, sat down in the grass behind her to watch. The first one she tossed skipped four times; the second, five. For the third, Draco saw in the way she threw it that it wouldn't skip; her wrist flicked too sharply, her arm was pulled back too far. The stone sank as soon as it touched the water, and Pansy backed away and sat down beside him.

"Metaphor," she said.

Draco looked at her quizzically for a moment before it hit him. Last year...

_ Pansy, kissing and stroking his hair on these very shores, beneath the same tree. Every so often he will catch her hand with his own and kiss it lightly, and Pansy will smile. _

_ "Look," Pansy says at one point, nodding at a bird on a rock in the middle of a lake._

_ It dips its head into the water._

_ "Is it fishing,, do you think?"_

_ "Probably," Draco says. "What is that, a crane?"_

_ "I don't think there are cranes here. But it's beautiful."_

_ Draco is inclined to agree. The bird is long-legged and elegant, with soft-looking, swan-like white feathers. As they watch, it raises its head and shakes it a little, as though to dry itself, and stretches its wings and takes off. It circles high above them, beautiful and free._

_ "Metaphor," says Pansy then._

_ He looks at her. "What?"_

_ "That's us," Pansy clarifies. "Taking off."_

Their metaphor had gone from flying to sinking. He caught the implied reproach.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

She was sitting, cross-legged, beside him, and he felt the urge to lean his head against her shoulder. Instantly her hands were in his hair, fiddling lightly with it, just like old times, and in seconds he was lying with his head in her lap, the way they used to do. She was running her hands through his hair. She loved his hair and he knew it; over the years, she had come up with a million _metaphors_ for its colour ("not blond, gold") and texture ("silk"). He loved her touching his hair, gently, caressingly, because it meant someone cared. He had fallen asleep to it more than once.

She hadn't touched it once since the Final Battle.

"Pansy," he said quietly.

She said nothing, but her head tilted forward to listen more closely.

"I've missed you."

Her dark hair fell forward to cover her face.

"I _am_ sorry. I worried about you, you know. I only wanted to protect you."

She stiffened.

"But you were right... you're always right. You're not weak; you're much stronger than I was. You were the one protecting me, all along."

"Yes," she said.

"I shouldn't have kept you at arm's length all the time. And last year, I shouldn't have..."

_Shouldn't have let you believe I loved you back._

"I used you. I played you. It was selfish, and I'm so sorry. I l – " The word stuck in his throat. "I care about you. I need you by my side. You know that, right?"

"I always knew. It's about time you realised it."

"Yeah," he said. "You can thank Hermione for that."

Her hands stilled in his hair.

"You've talked about me?"

"Only in good, I promise. She's quite scared of you."

He could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke.

"Really?"

"Yeah, positively terrified. So am I, by the way."

Her hands smoothed his hair back against his head lovingly. "You should be."

"You're scary as hell," he murmured. "I should be grateful you like me."

"I don't," she said. "I love you."

The words didn't surprise him anymore. They never had. The first time she'd expressed, in those words, the depth of her affection, he had said nothing. She hadn't seemed hurt. That was in fourth year, right after the Yule Ball. He had gone with her; who else could he take? Certainly not Daphne, whom he hated. Not anyone who was less than pure-blood, and not someone from the older classes. He hadn't even considered anyone but Pansy. When she had asked him, her voice almost tremulous, whom he was taking to the ball, he had looked at her and had said, "You, of course. Who else?" He wondered now whether she had thought that romantic; whether she had been ecstatic. She hadn't let it show. But that evening, they had danced. Not every dance. He had sat out more than he had danced, but he had allowed Pansy to coax him onto the dance floor a few times. She had been wearing dress robes that were somewhere between rose and lilac. He remembered that they had twirled with her as they danced, and that she had smiled a lot. He remembered thinking she had never looked happier. He supposed she treasured the memory. He did, too, but not in the same way. Not for the same reasons.

She wasn't waiting for an answer, and he couldn't give her one.

"I know," he said to fill the silence, knowing it sounded callous, wishing he could say something else.

But he couldn't lie to her, not again.

"If you truly were my best friend," she said, her voice very low, her lips almost brushing against his ear, "if you truly loved me, then you wouldn't have lied."

She kissed him on the cheek and left him lying there.

* * *

><p>Pansy knew she would always be Draco's. She had known it practically ever since she was born. She had been born a day after Draco, and their mothers – who already knew each other, but only in passing – had bonded at the maternity ward. As a result, almost as soon as Pansy had got out of the hospital, she was spending at least one day a week at Malfoy Manor. Their mothers had become close friends, and so had she and Draco. They had played together, they had attended receptions and balls together, they had grown up together. Inevitably, they had come to call what they had <em>friendship<em>, but Pansy always said it went deeper than that. They knew everything about each other; having known each other practically since birth, they trusted each other implicitly. And they loved everything they knew about the other. Draco was the one who begged Narcissa to take Pansy in for a few weeks when her aunt died from the disease he had been fighting against for years and her mother fell into a depression over her sister's death. Pansy had been almost disappointed when her father came to take her back after three weeks. She had enjoyed living with Draco.

When she was seven, Pansy became very ill. She contracted a severe case of dragon pox, a highly contagious disease which was easily curable in its minor forms, but more difficult to treat when it affected young children as harshly as it did now with Pansy. She lost weight and was sometimes delirious. Draco spent all day, every day by her side, not caring that he might contract it himself, not caring that some days Pansy was too ill to even recognise him. His worried mother tried and failed to keep him away. Pansy herself, when she was conscious enough, begged him to go; she _wanted_ him to go. She was so afraid he would become sick, too; Draco had been fragile as a child and sick far more often and far worse than she had. But Draco held her hand, smiled, and guided her soothingly back to health. In the days when her fever was high, she would open dazed eyes, catch a glimpse of platinum blond hair and grey eyes and know that everything was all right so long as her guardian angel was here with her. She insisted, for years afterwards, that he had saved her life. It was the first time she realised she couldn't live without him.

Most children fall in love for the first time when they hit puberty, and then it's often just a romanticised crush. Pansy fell in love when she was seven, and she fell hard.

When they were nine – it had been her idea –, they had made a promise to each other. They had spent an afternoon making pink and silver friendship bracelets (Draco had originally imagined silver and green, but Pansy loved pink and he had given in), and they had tied them around each other's wrists when they were finished.

"Now promise me something," Pansy had insisted when he had finished tying the knot. "Something nice."

"I promise I'll always be your best friend," Draco had said after a moment's thought. "I promise I'll never let you down, no matter what. I will always protect you with my own life."

"I promise I'll always be yours," Pansy had said. "I promise to always give you strength when yours fails you. I promise to never lose faith in you and to never give you reason to distrust me."

She had expected, even then, that she would one day marry him.

To him, she was a sister; but she viewed him as her other half. She gave everything for him; it cost her nothing because he was her everything. In first year, she had begged the Sorting Hat to put her in Slytherin with Draco. She had duelled Blaise (a half-blood who acted too superior around Draco) one night in the Common room and had busted his lip with a curse taken from one of Draco's fathers' books. From then on, all the Slytherins knew she was Draco's, and a more dangerous bodyguard than Crabbe and Goyle because she had a few more brain cells.

"Blasted animal," Blaise had said, touching his hand to his bloody mouth, a gleam of grudging admiration in his eyes. "Where'd you get her, Malfoy? She's like a wildcat on a leash."

This had pleased her, not offended her. She liked the idea of being Draco's guardian. The nickname, _Wildcat_, stuck among the kids in their year; even Draco used it sometimes. Her tongue wasn't anywhere near as sharp as Tracey's, but she was better at getting revenge. Her outbursts – like the very public duel with Blaise – oddly earned her respect, despite them never being very Slytherin (she knew she was more aggressive than cunning).

She remained loyally attached to Draco all throughout Hogwarts, dogging his footsteps. In third year, he had been attacked by that blasted hippogriff. Everyone, even Theo whom she had thought almost as loyal as her to Draco, _everyone_ said he'd asked for it. She hadn't left him for a second during the entire time he spent in the Hospital Wing. Deep inside, she knew what she was trying to repay him for. When she was seven years old and abed with dragon pox, he hadn't left her side despite the risk for his own health.

_"Leave me alone, Pansy,"_ Draco said. _"Go to class."_

She had shaken her head. _"I won't ever leave you." _

She felt like she'd always known she loved him and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, but puberty only hit them around their fourth year with the preparations for the Yule Ball. No one had asked Pansy to go with them. She was sure they all thought she would go with Draco. She had been sure, too. But when a week before the event, no invitation had come, she wasn't so sure anymore. Had he asked someone else? Her heart sank at the thought. Pansy had never thought of herself as a jealous person, mainly because she had nothing to be jealous of. Draco was hers. No one could ever be closer to him than the person who had known him since they were born. Now that they weren't children anymore but teenagers, she discovered the terrible ache of jealousy.

"Who are you taking to the Yule Ball?" she asked him, because Pansy, whatever else she may be, was not a coward.

He had looked surprised. "You, of course. Who else?"

Her heart stuttered, if such a thing were possible.

The night Digory died, they stayed in the common room together all night, wrapped around each other on the couch. He was scared, she could tell. She said nothing, but stroked his hair and kissed his forehead again and again, wishing she could take the moment and live it over and over again for all eternity.

Their sixth year was the year everything went truly wrong. Pansy watched helplessly as Draco withdrew into himself and wasted away. Something was terribly wrong, but she couldn't get him to open up and tell her what it was.

_"It's nothing, Pansy."_

_"Don't lie to me. You know I hate it when –"_

_"Then don't ask!"_ he had snapped. _"For once in your life, Pansy, just leave me alone."_

She had given him space, then. She had cried in shock the first time he snapped at him, but then she had toughened up and done what he asked. She stayed by his side just to let him know she was still there, would always be there, but she stopped asking him questions. She watched from a distance as he grew more and more tense. She knew the necklace was him as soon as the story spread around Hogwarts, which it did like wildfire. She knew about the poisoned mead, too. She was terrified, but she said nothing because Draco had asked her not to.

Until the day he gave her back the friendship bracelet.

She had stared at it in shock. The bracelets had been enchanted to never break by accident. Someone – _Draco _– had cut through it with magic; the pink and silver thread was unravelling itself in her cupped hands. She felt a sharp, ridiculous stab of pain in her heart as she looked up at Draco.

_"I can't wear it anymore,"_ he had said.

_No..._

_"I can't protect you and I can't ask you to protect me."_

_"You don't need to ask anything,"_ she had said fiercely. _"I'll always –"_

_"Pansy."_

She had fallen silent.

_"I can't be your best friend anymore,"_ he had said quietly, shattering her heart – her entire world – into a million pieces.

That night, Dumbledore had died and she had learnt everything: what Draco had been doing, why he had been doing it, who he had been doing it for, why he hadn't let her touch his arm that year. She also figured out that he had, once more, in his own way, tried to protect her.

She kept the bracelet in her pocket at all times. Over the summer, she had often taken it out and stared at it, trying to give strength to Draco through it. She had known what he was doing. She hadn't cared. She only wanted him to survive it. She hadn't written to him, not once, because she knew who he was with. On the Hogwarts Express before their seventh year, she had allowed herself to hope, a fierce, terrible hope. Her eyes had scanned the platform, then the train, then the compartments in desperation. She had found the compartment that Draco always rode in, but only Theo and Blaise had been there.

_"Hello, Wildcat."_

She had turned on her heel and found an empty compartment where she could stare out the window in piece, thinking about Draco. And then the compartment door had slid open, and he had been there.

She had flung herself at him and kissed him.

That year, everyone else had been hurting, terrified, miserable, grieving. But not Pansy Parkinson. Pansy had been in seventh heaven, because Draco had chosen to keep her closer than ever before. They had shared their first kiss that year, and hundreds more. It had been everything Pansy had ever dreamed for, and more. He had whispered sweet things in her ear, had held her in his arms and had told her he loved her.

She would never forget the way the words had sounded, even though she now knew it had all been a lie.

* * *

><p><strong>So, what think of this Pansy? It's a new angle for me. I've never actually gone in depth with Pansy's character. I know Rowling doesn't like her, and obviously neither does the trio. I don't know where all this came from. I think it's me trying to justify Pansy. I really, really like <strong>**her now.**

**I don't think Pansy is a nice girl. I think she's cowardly, when it comes to her own life, or Draco's. I think she's easily cruel. But I do think she really cares for Draco.  
><strong>


	27. All My Happy Memories

_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Harry Potter and am not making any money off this.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 27<strong>

**All My Happy Memories**

**1st December, 1998**

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><p>She watched him, eyes trained on his slight figure as he asked Madam Pince how long he could keep the book.<p>

"Two weeks," the librarian said, lips pinched together in distaste as she handed it over to him, looking as though she wanted to snatch it right back out of his hands.

It was a big, old book, probably around eight hundred yellow, aged pages long. Paperback and falling apart, with the kind of gothic lettering on the cover that was almost, but not quite, unreadable but elegant.

"Criminal law since the 1950s," she read aloud as Draco sat back down across from her, setting the book down on the table. "Do you want to look in law enforcement?"

He looked at her sharply, as though he thought she was mocking him. "No," he said, when he had ascertained that she wasn't. "I don't think they accept ex-Death Eaters, anyway."

She side-stepped that remark. "I read this book in third year," she said. "I think. When Buckbeak was going to be executed, I read all the books on law in the library to find a solution."

A shadow passed over Draco's face, and she remembered that that incident had been _his_ fault. And how she had despised him, then.

"It's an interesting book," she said after an awkward pause. "Wasn't very useful to us back then, but some things were worth knowing anyway – for example, Kingsley is the fourth Minister to attempt to fire the Dementors from Azkaban. The three preceding were shot down by their own governments and had to resign after making the suggestion. And it's actually illegal to imprison people who haven't been tried yet in Azkaban."

"I know," Draco said. "But they made an exception for us Death Eaters. Parked us all together in the same cell the first night – wandless – a few of them had a go at each other, Muggle-style, though... I sat with Pansy and Theo."

Hermione winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"Remind me? You didn't. I was thinking of it anyway."

She said nothing. She could see he was going to talk anyway.

His eyes suddenly lost their focus. "It was awful. Azkaban... is the worst thing imaginable. Or was, when the Dementors were still there. You've felt them – you know what they do. Remember our third year, in the train? Picture that – _feel_ it – and then imagine them constantly feeding on you for days and days, for _weeks_, until you can't think straight, until the only thought you have left is that you'll never feel happy again. You don't even know what being happy is anymore. My mother... kept screaming. For days." He laughed bitterly. "When they finally fired the Dementors, I could hardly recognise my own parents. They've never been the jolly type, but we were all so – so _un_happy that we could hardly speak to each other. I never realised how happy I was during my childhood until they took it all away." He shuddered and marked a pause before continuing. "The other day, on the fifth floor, I heard something moving inside one of the classrooms. It was a cupboard, and I knew there was a Boggart inside. And I remembered our third year. I thought it would be fun to release the Boggart. In third year, I had found it easy to defeat. I can't even remember what it had turned into back then, but I..." He closed his eyes. "When the door opened, a Dementor came out. And I swear, I felt the exact same thing that I used to feel in Azkaban. It was like it was sucking out my very life and not only my happiness. And I heard – " He stopped, opened his eyes again and looked at her. "I – I just ran away from the room. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't. How do you use Riddikulus on a Dementor?"

"You don't," Hermione said softly. "Harry had the same problem in third year. I remember you making fun of him."

He flinched at the memory.

"Professor Lupin taught him to cast a Patronus Charm, which is the only spell effective against Dementors."

He looked wary. "That's good magic, isn't it?"

"It's magic good people can do," she admitted, and lay a hand on his arm. "You could."

"How does it work?"

"It's based on – well, first you have to think of a memory. A very happy memory, the happiest you have. I – I usually picture my friends or my family, actually." She blushed, for some reason feeling as though this was a very personal revelation. "You have to concentrate on that memory as hard as you can... And then you say the incantation, and your Patronus – it looks like a silvery animal – shoots out of your wand and attacks – well, it's not really an attack – repels the Dementor."

"What animal?"

"It depends on the caster."

"What's yours?" he asked curiously.

She hesitated, again getting the feeling that it was a very personal question. "It's an otter," she said at last.

"Why?"

"Why?" she echoed, unsure of what he meant.

"What determines the shape a Patronus takes?"

She paused thoughtfully. "You know, I'm not really sure," she said finally. "I think, somehow, they reflect the caster's personality or feelings. Harry's Patronus is a stag, and so was his father's – I think the symbolism for that is noble, right? And it does suit him. His mother's was a doe, maybe because she loved his father. I've seen a Patronus change because its caster suffered from – from unrequited love, I suppose you would call it. A friend of mine had a dog Patronus, and he really was very loyal. I really think it has something to do with that." She stopped suddenly, realising that Draco was staring at her intently. "Draco? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He was still staring, and that was when it hit her.

"Draco," she said slowly, "Do you want to learn the Patronus Charm?"

He was silent.

"I could teach you," she offered. "It's easier if someone is there with you. I know from experience – Harry taught us as a group in our fifth year. It's much easier to feel happy when you're surrounded by friends – even though it's also easier to feel embarrassed. You could bring a friend along if you wanted to."

He snorted at that. "A friend? I'm sure you'd appreciate Pansy's company. Not that she'd come if I asked her to," he added quickly when she made a face. "I've had a bit of a fall from grace in her eyes since – _then_. As for the others..." He shrugged. "I think they'd make me feel more uncomfortable than anything else."

She nodded. "I can understand that. But do you – would you want me to teach you?"

He looked at her again, and again she felt uncomfortable, as though his eyes could see far beyond the surface of her skin and deep into her soul. Then:

"I'd like that."

"Great," she said, breathing out and realising only then that she'd been holding her breath. "We can start now if you'd like. We don't need a Dementor at first – or even a Boggart. I learnt within the safety of the castle, and I could cast my Patronus just fine when I met a Dementor later on. So first, you have to –"

"Can I see your Patronus?"

It was her turn to stop and stare. "Oh. Um..."

Why was it that he could make her so uncomfortable? Within the space of five minutes, he had got her to tell him much more than she felt she should.

"I suppose so," she relented, and raised her wand, summoning up the memory she almost always used – the results of her OWLs. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Nothing happened, and she stiffened in shock, staring at the end of her wand. She had been able to cast the spell during the Battle, amid dead bodies and spells shooting over her head. What was wrong with her? She pressed her lips tightly together and raised her wand again.

After a few seconds, her hand trembled, then lowered. She found she didn't know which memory to use. There, and then, within the safety of the Hogwarts grounds, it was proving more difficult to cast a Patronus than when faced with an army of Dementors during a war. A happy memory? They all seemed so far away... Her friends. When had she last seen Harry laugh? When had Ron last slung his arm around her shoulders? The memories were fuzzy, distant, and she couldn't quite conjure an image of Harry's genuine smile. She had to have seen one recently, but the fact that he was so often moody or unhappy erased the few memories of him smiling.

Her family, she thought. When she had gone to Australia to lift the memory charm. Her mother had cried out her name like she'd thought she'd never see her daughter again. Her father had hugged her... And she had been so happy.

She raised her wand again and said, in a confident voice, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

The silvery otter erupted from the end of her wand and immediately started frolicking around, leaping over Draco and jumping circles in the air, leaving temporary, silver traces behind it. Draco's face lit up as he gazed at her Patronus.

"It looks happy," he said.

"That's because there are no Dementors around," she joked. "She wants to play."

Draco reached out as though to stroke her otter, but as soon as the tip of his fingers brushed against the silvery back, the otter disappeared into thin air, vanished. He pulled back his hand and a shadow fell across his face.

"Don't take it personally," Hermione said, smiling. "They aren't pets." She pushed her wand back up her sleeve. "What's the happiest memory you can recall?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I told you," she said, "you need a really strong memory to cast a Patronus. It's what will give you the strength necessary to – it'll allow you to cast the spell. Patronuses are the... they're supposed to be a shield between you and the Dementor. They're guardians, I suppose. So think of a memory, the happiest memory you have."

"All my happy memories have already been eaten by the Dementors."

She shuddered. "That can't –"

"It can."

His expression was so dark that she believed him.

She squared her shoulders. "In that case, we'll just have to work on making new ones."

"New ones?"

"New memories," she clarified. "That will make you happy."

He shook his head. "I told you, I don't think –"

"Do you want to learn to cast a Patronus or not?" she cut him off. "I take it you do. So. Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"Annoyed," he said.

"Well _that_'s not going to get us anywhere," she muttered. "What could make you happy, right this instant?"

He looked up at her, his eyes darkening with – something. "I don't know. I think – I mean, I don't usually mind our just talking."

"'Don't mind' won't quite cut it, you know. I don't know, do you like jokes? Reading? Does it make you happy to help someone with their homework? Or maybe you like ballroom dancing or something."

"Ballroom dancing? You can't be serious."

"You're not helping me."

He shook his head, then seemed thoughtful for a moment.

"Flying," he said finally. "I like flying."

"You are not getting me to do that," she warned him.

"Why not? I do like it. It's always made me feel good. Well, except when Potter caught the Snitch from right out under my nose."

"I am not getting on a broom for the sake of your having a good time."

"It's not like you'd have to, anyway. I don't think Quidditch is enough for what you've described."

"Maybe winning the Quidditch Cup?" she suggested.

A smile graced his features. "Oh, yeah. Definitely that."

She smiled back, because it was contagious. And then she remembered something.

"Oh," she said, "I'm so stupid. Of course!" She thrust her hand deep into the pocket of her robes and pushed a few pens out of the way. "I think I even have it on me..."

"What are you talking about?"

"This!" she said triumphantly, waving a folded piece of parchment under his nose. "It's funny, too. Harry sent it. It's about Teddy. _Family_," she said.

Draco just looked at her blankly. "Family?"

"Family makes people happy, right?" she said. "I thought of mine, just now, when I cast my Patronus. And babies make people laugh, too. We'll just have to make you some new memories with Teddy."

He stared at her for so long that the triumph began to rub off, replaced by a sinking feeling.

"What?"

His eyes flicked to the parchment in her hand. "Who's Teddy?"

* * *

><p><strong>Now is the good moment, I feel, to share something about symbolism. I don't often go into that kind of thing, but it seemed appropriate that since I was talking about Patronuses, I study Hermione's. Here is the most interesting (read: relevant) thing I found about the otter: She teaches people to <strong>**relax****, become a child again and ****enjoy life****. Otter is a strong protector who helps people to ****find their inner treasures and hidden talents****, gain wisdom, and to be able to recover from any ****crisis****. See what I mean?**

** Got this from: suite101 – com / otter-pagan-symbolism-and-a-legend-a60379**

** Replace the – between suite, and com by ".", delete the space between the dash and the words and it should work.**

**I will update twice more next weekend, as I used to.  
><strong>


	28. A Hundred Percent

_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Harry Potter and am not making any money with this.**

**This is more of a _feeling_ chapter. Next chapter is Draco... and someone I quite like. It's coming up today, as soon as I'm finished re-reading.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 28<strong>

**A Hundred Percent**

**23rd November, 1998**

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><p>Diagon Alley was slowly reconstructing itself. The rubble, old shops destroyed by Death Eaters, had been cleared away. Most stores were open now, and one or two new ones had sprang up to replace those that had permanently closed up. These boasted brightly-coloured painted façades and windows chock-full of products and bold posters. Only a couple shops still had the "CLOSED FOR RESTORATION" sign on their door, and there were maybe three dozen wizards and witches sweeping up the alley, looking into shop windows, talking to their friends, sitting down for a drink. It was nothing like the crowds Diagon Alley had once attracted, but it was a start. There were even a few stall vendors – which would not have been missed – back.<p>

Katie, by her side, seemed delighted by this. It was the first time she came back to Diagon Alley, and what she had heard of it had led her to expect something much worse. She bought a ridiculously expensive, ridiculously useless but quite pretty trinket from one of the stall vendors, who smiled gratefully at her, and looked around with eyes wide with excitement. She had a new take on the world now and took a wide-eyed, childish delight in everyday, mundane things.

"I don't know how to explain it, Alicia," she had said once. "Everything seems brighter somehow, shinier. I stop to stare at things I've never noticed before. I don't know if it's just that I'm happy to be alive, or if it's because the war is over, but... The world is so _beautiful_ now."

If the world was beautiful, Alicia couldn't see it. It seemed bleak and dull and hopeless to her, not because nothing good happened, but because the worst had already happened and what was there to live for now? Katie said, "But the best has also happened, Al." That was true, but as far as Alicia was concerned, the bad still outnumbered the good.

One of the only good things was Katie who, with her newly found optimism, was a refreshing presence to have around. Her recovery had been swift, miraculous really. Scarcely a week after coming out of her coma, she had been walking around St. Mungo's and down to the visitors' tearoom to look for a book, because she was _"bored stiff."_ The Healers had insisted on releasing her only now to _"run some tests,"_ but when they had found nothing Katie had left, glad to be free. Even Katie had her part of _bad_, though; Alicia couldn't help but feel a little jealous as she saw her friend sometimes start skipping ahead of her for no other reason than because she _could_. Not to make Alicia jealous – Katie didn't have a cruel or spiteful bone in her body – but to enjoy life.

This was made even worse by the fact that Alicia had finally given in to the Healers' pressing suggestions and had taken to always going around in a wheelchair. She hated it because it made her feel like an invalid, but she _was_ an invalid nowadays. With the baby on the way making itself heavier and heavier with every passing day, she simply couldn't get around with her crutches anyway. The Healers insisted it was too dangerous, anyway, because she might fall.

Alicia had then discovered another disadvantage of being in a wheelchair: she found that a pregnant woman in a wheelchair tended to attract glances. She knew that, apart from her stomach, she was thin, which made her look unhealthy. Though she had loosened all her robes at the waist, the bulge of her belly was still obvious. Katie had brought her to a seamstress specialised in maternity robes, but the clothes that had been suggested made Alicia look – and feel – old and dowdy, so she stuck with her old wardrobe, which made her look – and feel – young and foolish. She could have got rid of the baby. She had known early enough for it to be possible, and she didn't really want It. In other circumstances, she would have. But she hadn't. She couldn't, not while there was a chance that It could be his_._ It would have been another murder, a second death for him. Meanwhile, this meant that she was was twenty years old, single, and pregnant, and the way people sometimes looked at her, she felt like it was written across her forehead in neon lights.

"You're beautiful," Katie had said, sincerely, when Alicia admitted this feeling. But if Katie thought the _world_ was beautiful, then it didn't really mean much, did it?

"Oh," Katie said presently, "I haven't been here in ages."

She stopped, and after a second's hesitation Alicia tapped her armrest with her wand to make her wheelchair stop as well. She wasn't used to the thing yet, and had no intention of getting used to it. She made it swivel around and looked into the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"Neither have I," she said softly. "Not since..."

_Not since Hogwarts_, she thought, amazed at how far away that seemed.

"I'm going to buy something," Katie said decisively, and pushed the door open and stepped in.

Alicia sighed and wheeled in behind her. "We're not here for this," she reminded her friend.

"George can wait a few minutes," Katie said. "I just... Oh." A smile spreads across her face, large and contented, as she whiffs the air. "Do you smell that, Al? That's new broomstick smell."

Alicia smiled despite herself. It _did_ smell good, though she would have bet on a mixture of handle polish and leather over an actual broom; wood didn't smell _this_ strong.

"I'm going to buy gloves," Katie announced. "And a broom compass. And..." Her dark eyes darted around the shop, taking in every detail. "Oh, I could buy the entire shop. Look at that broom, Al."

Alicia looked and smiled. "Yours is better."

"But older," Katie said, stroking the smooth wooden handle with one hand. She sighed deeply. "_And_ locked in a closet at home, since I'm not allowed to fly yet."

"The Healers still won't let you?"

"Not for another month," Katie said. "Old interfering fusspots."

"I remember that," Alicia said. "They do get annoying, don't they?"

"You have no idea." Katie bit her lip. "Oh, all right, just the gloves and the compass then." Her eyes lingered on a portable trunk which could be clipped to the back of a broom for travel, and there was suddenly something infinitely sad in her expression. "I've missed this shop."

"It isn't half as good as Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," Alicia said, reminding her what they had come for.

"All right, all right," Katie said. "Just wait a second while I pay."

Paying took slightly longer than a second, because there was actually a queue at the till. This simple fact didn't irritate Alicia; instead, it made her smile. It was almost as though things were going back to normal. When Katie half-walked, half-skipped out of the shop, the smile remained. And it stayed until they had walked a hundred feet. That was when they stopped dead in their tracks; even Alicia in her wheelchair stopped abruptly.

"_Oh_," Katie said quietly.

They had walked past it almost without noticing it, and had only stopped when they reached the shop next to it, realising they had missed it. Weasleys' Wizard* Wheezes looked... _dreary_. The windows were dusty and almost opaque, the sign hanging above the door was dull, and the entire thing was just so _grey_ it made Alicia want to cry. It looked as though no one had been inside for months.

"Holy –" Alicia said. "I had no idea it was this bad."

"You really haven't been here since the battle?"

"I came here once," Alicia said softly, wheeling over to run her fingers over the dust on the window. "In August." She paused, remembering that time. She'd intended to talk to George, but Angelina had been there and... "I didn't stay long, but I don't think... I mean, it wasn't this bad. Lee was – I think he was doing most of the work. But now..." She trailed off, not really knowing much about _now_.

"Now Lee's found another type of work," Katie said bitterly.

Alicia looked at her. Katie and Lee hadn't been the best friends in the world, but they had cared for each other a lot. Lee had driven himself sick with worry over her when she'd been in a coma. Alicia didn't think she'd seen Katie look so disapproving since she had woken up.

"He's in over his head," Katie said. "Auror business – what does he think he's doing? It isn't a job for him."

Alicia grit her teeth. "He's after Rookwood."

"That's what makes it so wrong."

Alicia disagreed, but she refrained from showing it. Instead, she rapped on the door, feeling slightly nostalgic. Not so long ago, she'd had the keys to the place. Now she had to wait outside – winter was here and it was proving to be quite harsh – for someone to open the door.

_Someone_ opened the door, grabbed her hands, and pulled her up onto her feet and into a great bear hug, despite her bulging belly.

"Alicia!" Angelina cried. "I haven't seen you in so long!"

Alicia went stiff in her friend's arms. She had a horrible feeling of _déjà-vu_. _Again?_ Last time she'd come, Angelina had been here, too. That was why her visit had been so short. Now, with Katie along, she couldn't excuse herself as quickly.

If Angelina noticed her coldness, she didn't mention it; within seconds she had let her regain her wheelchair and moved on to Katie, kissing her soundly on both cheeks.

"You're looking so healthy," she said admiringly. "I don't know why we ever worried about you! You look better than any of us."

It was true. Katie seemed to _breathe_ life. Angelina was hanging on, but the strain of it showed in her eyes. As for Alicia herself, well... She was the worst off and knew it.

"Is Lee here?" Katie asked.

"No," Angelina said, frowning just a little as though she knew what Katie thought of Lee's job and agreed. "He's at work; he always is. But George is here, of course. He should be happy to see you... Come in."

The inside of the shop was almost worse than the outside. Katie sneezed as soon as she stepped inside, because of all the dust. Alicia had to strain to make out vague shapes in the darkness.

"We've stopped bothering with light spells here," Angelina explained as she led them through the shop. She moved easily, unbothered by the dark. "Since we hardly ever come down here anymore."

Alicia felt her wheelchair bump over something. "Well, it isn't very practical."

Katie's joy was definitely dampened by this turn of events; even in the dark Alicia could see her smile was gone. She was looking left and right at all the joke products, which seemed eery in the darkness, bizarrely-shaped shadows covered in a thick layer of dust. Alicia could have sworn she saw a spider skittering across one of them, but she hoped she was wrong. Her skin crawled at the thought.

Katie almost tripped over the first step. "It's been too long since I last came," she said, laughing a little. It sounded forced. "_Lumos._"

The tip of her wand lit up, and Alicia blinked twice to adjust to the sudden brightness. She tapped her wand twice against her armrest.

"Levitation Charm?" Angelina said, eyeing her wheelchair. "I was wondering how you would get up these stairs. They're getting better at making these, aren't they?"

Alicia made a non-committal noise. _I suppose they are, but I don't really care._ Angelina didn't press further. When she reached the top of the stairs, she flung the door wide open, and the light that poured out made Alicia close her eyes for a second. The upper floor, at least, seemed to be well taken care of and regularly cleaned. The stairs led straight into the kitchen, which was painted a neutral, clean white.

"George," Angelina called. "It's Alicia and Katie." She turned to them. "He'll be in the living room, I think."

The two-bedroom flat above the shop housed a bathroom, a separate toilet, and a spacious kitchen. It was more than enough for Fred and George, who had really only chosen the place for the shop downstairs; they would have lived in a dump* if they could have the shop. Having never slept apart a single night since they were born, they had placed their twin beds in the same bedroom and had converted the second into a sort of living room, with a dozen plump cushions on the floor, a low wooden table, and three overflowing bookshelves. Over time, piles of joke products had been amassed in corners of the room, until it was the messiest room in the flat. It had then become the twins' official favourite, if you didn't count the lab downstairs, where they spent most of their time trying to keep their newest ideas from exploding.

Sure enough, George was sitting on one of the cushions, not sprawled all across the floor as he and Fred had used to, but sitting with arms wrapped around his bent legs and resting his chin on his knees. He looked up at them when they entered, but didn't move to stand up; he smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He had changed since the last time she'd seen him, at St Mungo's, and not for the better.

Alicia thought he had never looked less like Fred.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello, George," Katie said, clearly as unnerved as Alicia and determined not to show it. She plopped down on a cushion beside him, curling her legs up beneath her. "How have you been?"

"All right," George said.

His tone was lacking something, something infinitesimal that Alicia couldn't quite put her finger on. He sounded almost normal, but... There was that _something_.

"But what about you?" George asked, sounding like he cared. "You're fine?"

"Good as new," Katie said, nodding. "Though I'm not allowed to play Quidditch yet!" She swung a plastic bag in front of him. "I bought new gloves from Quality Quidditch Supplies anyway; couldn't resist it."

George smiled again and stretched lazily, loosening up. "Why am I not surprised? You've always acted as though you had too much money to spend. You'll be poor before you hit thirty at this rate."

"Nah," Katie said. "I'll find some rich billionaire to marry."

"Poor guy," George said, and Katie swatted him on the arm playfully. "You call that a punch, woman? It's pretty obvious that you're a Chaser, not a Beater."

"Speaking of which," Katie said, beaming. "Next month I should be able to play again."

"Play?" George scoffed. "You'll have to learn to _fly_ again first! Six months without even seeing a broom will have taken a dent in your so-called skill, Bell."

"We'll see, _Weasley_," Katie retorted. "You know what? When I play again, I want you there, just so I can beat the trousers off you."

"In your dreams."

"Children, children," Angelina said. "Calm down, you big babies. You're too old for this."

"Not old yet," George said. "Not for some time."

"Really? Had me fooled. Some days you _do_ look like a doddering old man, sitting around the flat doing nothing all day," Angelina retorted.

Something flashed across George's face. Alicia was surprised by the hard edge in Angelina's voice; she had always been tough, but never harsh with the twins themselves. She looked at Angelina more closely. Her friend had lost a little weight, maybe, but nothing like George. She wasn't emaciated, but her slightly hollowed cheeks and pointy elbows conferred her a new toughness, as though she'd been through everything and wasn't about to let anyone walk all over her. There was still a softness in her eyes, but it didn't extend to the rest of her her, from the way she held herself to the way she spoke to George.

Angelina noticed her staring and turned to look her in the eye, and Alicia ducked her head. Angelina looked like she had suffered so much and was toughing it out, whereas Alicia had chosen to flee and hide from the past. Even now, she couldn't meet Angelina's gaze, not knowing what she might find there. Blame, pity, indifference? The worst, she had already decided, would be compassion, because she didn't deserve it. She deserved scorn for what she had done to her friend. If Angelina knew... if she _knew_... she wouldn't hug Alicia the way she had, and she certainly wouldn't be happy to see her. If Angelina knew, then Alicia would probably never set foot here again.

It was hard enough to face her when she _didn'_t know. She couldn't shake the feeling that Angelina _did_ know something, or suspect, because of the way her gaze rested on her, heavy and inquiring. But she avoided it, focusing on a spot on the thick fluffy rug she had loved to lie down on; she envied George and Katie's cushions, trapped as she was in the wheelchair.

"So..." George said after a pause. "When are you due, Al?"

"Three weeks from now," Alicia replied, looking down at herself.

"Three weeks? With a little luck, you'll be spending Christmas in hospital then."

"Very funny, George."

She felt suffocated, as though the walls were closing in on her. _Three weeks._ It was the first time she'd said it aloud, and the reality of it suddenly hit her. In three weeks she would be a mother, and he would be a father, and then what would she do? She had only kept It because she couldn't get rid of It, not because she wanted It.

"It's going to be a girl, right?" George said.

"Yes."

There was a small silence after this. Alicia thought she knew why. The last time they'd all been together – Lee, George, Katie and Alicia; Angelina had been thankfully absent – at St Mungo's, George had asked who the father was, and Alicia had replied, _"I don't know."_ No one had voiced their judgement, but Alicia knew well enough what they thought. Since then, Katie had asked her the question twice, convinced she was lying – she had to have an _idea_, Katie said. Even if she wasn't one hundred percent _sure_...

That was it, really. She wasn't _sure_, but the _idea_ she had was the one which made the most sense, if you concentrated on the dates. She had allowed herself to hope she was right; at the same time, she wished she were wrong. It would make everything so much harder. It was selfish of her, to want to hold on to It, to him, but she did. If she were right, then she could never tell Angelina – and, by extension, Katie, George, or Lee, or even Oliver, or anyone really, for fear it would get back to Ange. _I am so sorry, Ange._ She _was_ sorry. She felt so guilty it still kept her awake some nights, more and more often as her due date approached.

"Al," Angelina said softly, "Are you all right? You look... different. Strained."

Tears pricked her eyes, threatening to spill over. Alicia didn't reply, not trusting herself to speak. She could take anything, but not Angelina's kindness. Not kindness she didn't deserve, not friendship she had betrayed.

"Al," Angelina said again. "What's wrong?"

Alicia cried.

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><p><strong>Okay. Guys, I know English is my second language, but really? "Eery" is a word, isn't it (isn't it?)?<br>According to spellcheck, it isn't.**


	29. Don't Touch Me

_Disclaimer:_** JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter**

**I'm not getting as many reviews as before, but I've noticed a lot of people Alerting, so I just wanted to say thank you. *hugs*  
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><p><strong>Chapter 29<strong>

**Don't Touch Me**

**18th December, 1998 – last day before the holidays**

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><p>Christmas was in the air, but it came in the form of a heavy, thick mist, not pure-white snow, and smelled more of bitterness than of gingerbread and Christmas carols. The weather seemed to reflect their spirits. The Slytherin dungeons were permanently damp, which was worse than dry, freezing cold, because damp seeped into your clothes and stayed there. It was clearly going to be the dreariest Christmas this generation of Slytherins had ever had. It was too bad, because he had always liked Christmas. When he was a child, it meant a pile of expensive presents and an entire day spent with his father, who could always make time for him on this day. The Christmas of his fifth year, after the Dark Lord's return, had been the first he'd spent at Hogwarts, and since then he had stayed at school for every holiday, at his father's request. He hadn't taken the change as badly as one might have expected. The Slytherins were an unfriendly bunch in general, but the few who remained for Christmas – he had never been completely alone – had been compassionate enough. Besides, the expensive presents still came, courtesy of the owl post.<p>

Of course, this year there was no one left to give him gifts.

To keep warm, the Slytherins had taken to scooting armchairs and pillows over and sitting in a huddled mass around the only fireplace in the common room. At first these had been fairly silent reunions, but then the first years had brought down Exploding Snap cards. Now they talked, joked, and played cards around the fire every evening after supper. He sometimes took part, but he was a notorious loser at cards, and since most of the time they played for actual money, he generally avoided the games. He would lean on the side of the tall marble fireplace and watch quietly, as he was doing now. He was so absorbed in the game – Duce had a terrible hand – that he didn't notice when someone walked right up to him.

"Theo," Draco said very softly.

It still made him jump. Draco arched an eyebrow but chose not to comment.

"How was your day?"

"Oh, simply wonderful," Theo said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from dripping from his voice.

Since when did Draco ask about his _day_? It was unlike him to be the first to seek a conversation.

"I had Transfiguration with you, and then I had Charms with you, and then... Oh, wait. I had all of my classes with you today. I ate breakfast, lunch and supper with you today, and I had Quidditch practice with you today. You _know_ how my day went."

Draco shrugged. "You hardly said a word."

"Well, neither did you," Theo recalled. "Except in Potions, and it wasn't me you were talking to then."

_You were with Granger_, he thought. What was going on in Draco's head? He'd seen them together in the library. He'd been smiling, she'd been _laughing_, and their hands, placed on the table between them, had almost been _touching_.

"Well, how did Potions go, then?" Draco asked, unruffled. He glanced around quickly. "Could we move over?"

Theo reluctantly detached himself from the side of the fireplace – he'd just been starting to feel warm – and followed Draco to a corner of the common room.

"You have something to say?" he asked.

"You're staying for Christmas, right?"

"Obviously," he said, wondering what Draco was about. "Like I always do. Merry Christmas, by the way, since we won't see each other again until then."

"Wait until the twenty-fifth," Draco said. "I'll be here, too."

"You're not spending Christmas _here_," Theo said disbelievingly. "You have to go home. Christmas is a family holiday."

"I know."

"Your mother thinks the world of you."

"What would _you_ know about it? You haven't _got_ a mother."

This was true. Theo was practically an orphan now that his father was in Azkaban; his mother had died when he was three and he couldn't remember her.

"Anyone with half an eyeball could see," he said coolly. "You can't do that to her."

"She already knows," Draco said. "And she understands. Theo –"

"It's all right."

Theo could see in Draco's eyes that he regretted his words, as he always ended up doing. He found he was beyond caring. Draco had lost the ability to affect his _feelings_ when he'd hurt him _physically_. When they were kids, Draco had had a much bigger influence over Theo. It wasn't new to him that Draco didn't respect his father very much, because he thought him cruel. He was probably right. Theo had always known, even as a child, that his father was not a good man, but he had refused to think about it. Theodore Senior had loved two people, at least: his wife whom he had cherished and the only thing that was left of her, their son.

In truth, Theodore Senior had been no worse than Lucius, and probably better in some ways. He was good to his servants, trusting them with the care of his son and his domain during his absences, and never resorting to physical or magical punishment. He disdained, not house-elves, but people who employed them as _cheap and terrorised service_. He inspired respect in the people of his household and expected his orders to be obeyed, but he found the idea of having people working for you because they _had_ to distasteful.

_"There's something to be said about mutual trust, son,"_ he had told an enraptured seven-year-old Theo. _"Do you trust Pietr?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_ "You should. He is loyal. Pietr is the sort of servant I hope you'll find yourself when you're older. Mind you don't be too trusting, of course. No one is ever safe from betrayal. But be suspicious of everyone and everyone will hate you. That's not something you want, son."_

_"No, sir."_

His father had smiled and ruffled his hair. _"Well, I'm a fool. All this doesn't mean anything to you, does it? Run along now, Theodore."_ He never shortened his son's name. None of the servants did, either; Draco had given him the nickname. _"It's long past your bedtime."_

It was hard to reconcile that smiling man with the one who had tortured Muggles, killed Mudbloods and followed the Dark Lord. The Death Eater who had grown more and more haggard in a month of pre-trial imprisonment. The man who had lost some of his reason to the Dementors and who had begged him, over and over again, to forgive him. _"Please."_ The man who had finally completely lost touch with reality, calling his son Serene, his wife's name, when he came to visit. The man who had been too addled to care at his own trial, who had stayed silent all throughout it, his eyes flat and empty even when his son rose to his defence. Theo had lost his father to the war and he would never forget it.

Though he hadn't shown his son much attention, Theodore Senior hadn't been harsh, just... preoccupied. When his wife, seven years younger than him and full of idealistic, pacifist notions, died from tuberculosis, there had been nothing left to keep him from falling into shady, illegal activities. He hadn't really been there for his son, trusting his education to family servants who loved their young master enough to overlook his few misdemeanours. As a result, Theo grew up mellow and mild-mannered, soft-spoken but confident that his word was law, and rather critical of the business that kept his caring father away from him. "Dad" was, to Theo, the tall, strongly-built man he saw twice a month at the most and who always spoke kindly to him. Whereas Lucius had been, to Draco, the constant reminder of a model to follow, of steps to walk in, of a name to live up to, with always a sharp word at the ready if he were to stray from the beaten path.

What did it matter now, anyway? None of that would ever be true again. His father would never get out of Azkaban, and there was no Malfoy name to live up to anymore; it had been dragged in the dirt and trampled on so soundly all Draco could even attempt to do was keep the rags that remained in the sorry state they were in.

So Theo simply didn't care anymore.

"My situation has nothing to envy yours," he heard himself say, and saw with some satisfaction that Draco flinched.

He'd met Draco when they were six, and liked him instinctively, maybe because there were so different. Draco was – had been – loud-mouthed and had felt the need to constantly assert his superiority over everyone, even his so-called friends. He found in the quiet but clever Theo an ideal companion who wouldn't overshadow him too much. They had become fast friends. Did it hurt that Draco would always put himself above everyone else?

It was the Slytherin way. Tracey was like that, too. Pansy was the only Slytherin he knew who was truly selfless – at least when it came down to the one thing that counted: Draco.

"That's for sure," Draco said.

"Well, that's not quite true," Theo said. "I could envy you one thing. Your father's freedom."

Draco blinked. "You could."

"But quite frankly, I don't envy you at all. You're in worse shape than any of us. But you deserve it, after all. We don't."

The meaning was implicit, and Draco caught it. He had been the Carrows' favourite, bowing his head to their every command and turning his wand even on his friends to protect himself. _And Pansy_, Theo had to remind himself. Always Pansy. The two were inseparable. Pansy, even now, was watching them from the fireplace. Ostensibly she was playing cards with Blaise and two fifth-years, but her eyes kept darting over to them. Draco followed his gaze; his eyes landed on Pansy.

"She deserved better," Theo said.

"So do you," Draco pointed out wryly. "And so does Hermione."

"At least you care for Granger." He kept going back to her.

"If you're talking about Pansy, you know I –"

"I was referring to myself."

Draco looked surprised. "It isn't like you to be so emotional."

"On the contrary." He just tried not to let it show. "It just isn't like you to notice."

"You're my friend, Theo. You know that."

"I know _I_ am," he agreed. _And I know I hate myself for it._ "But are you?"

"Ah," Draco said, and was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "So it's come to this, at last."

"You couldn't expect me to ignore it forever. Unless that was what you were planning to do?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted. "You were so... so _strange_, after it happened. After I did it," he amended quickly when Theo shot him a look. "Almost like nothing had happened. It was only when Astoria..." He stopped, hesitated, and started again. "After a while, you started being moody, going from friendly to cold in seconds, and I knew it would never be the same. But I didn't know what to do about it."

"Talking would have been a start," Theo said. "Talking is always a start."

"I've never been good at talking."

"No," Theo agreed. "You haven't. But there's always a first time."

"I –"

"Until it's too late," Theo finished.

He let his meaning sink in, waited for Draco to understand.

After a moment, Draco said, quietly, "You can't just throw our friendship away."

"Why not? You did it."

"You _can't_ –"

"I can. And I will."

"Thirteen," he said. "Thirteen _years_ since we met. And it ends now?"

"It ended last year," Theo corrected him. "Through your fault. It almost ended eight years ago, when we came here and you 'threw our friendship away' because –"

"You broke your promise to me," Draco said suddenly. "You swore, and you didn't do it. I don't blame you. Can't you forgive _me_ for my mistakes?"

Theo froze and stared. Disbelief filled him. Was he really talking about – ?

"We were _fifteen_, Draco."

"_I_ was eleven when I pushed you away," Draco countered.

"You can't compare that to this. I couldn't do it."

"You had the opportunities. And you had promised me you would."

"You can't blame me –"

"I don't," Draco interrupted him. "I'm _glad_ you didn't do it. But it was a promise. Forgive me for failing you, like I've forgiven you."

Fifteen years old, the summer before their fifth year. The Dark Lord was back. Both of them knew what that meant for them: join, or die. Draco had been terrified. He had made Theo promise to choose the first option.

_"We'll do it together,"_ he had murmured that night, looking straight up at the ceiling. _"Side by side, always."_

_"Always,"_ Theo had echoed.

They never spoke about it again, but the promise remained fresh in their minds all through their fifth year. There was something reassuring in the knowledge that you would never be alone. But things hadn't gone according to plan. Theo expected it to happen after Hogwarts; of what use could two school-aged wizards be to the Dark Lord? But the next summer, Draco hadn't written a single time. And when he saw him again in September, Theo knew. The drawn, pinched features, the resentment and bitterness in his eyes.

Draco had taken the Mark.

It was too early. Theo hadn't followed. His father had suggested it once or twice, had mentioned _"pulling strings"_ and _"putting in a word for you,"_ as though the Dark Lord might be as easy to manipulate as a puppet. As though his father had any true power. Theo had ignored the feeling of debt to Draco and had said, every time: _"After Hogwarts, Father_,_"_ to delay the inevitable. He didn't _want_ the Dark Mark. He didn't _want_ Draco's stress and nightmares and guilt and anguish and secret plotting and murder attempts. He didn't _want_ the sleepless nights, the crying, the threats and promises. He didn't want any of it.

Draco had never mentioned it before, because doing so would invite talk of his initiation, something he didn't want. If he was finally bringing it up – had he been bottling up his resentfulness up until this moment? Even so... there was no comparing, he told himself. But there was. If he had joined Draco, then the _incident_ that still kept him up at night would never have happened.

"I didn't want to do it," Theo admitted. "I wanted to delay it for as long as possible. And I'm not sorry about it."

"You're not supposed to be." Draco looked at him and let out a breath that might almost have been a sigh. "I wish I had half your strength."

Theo snorted. "I let you down."

"You saved yourself. And I – I wasn't even able to do that. I miss you," Draco admitted.

"I've missed you since our first day here. I don't remember it bothering you too much."

Draco looked like he'd been slapped across the face; his eyes looked wildly at him. Hurt, madly hurt grey met blue, and memories flashed before Theo's eyes again, but not the same kind. He closed his eyes, wrestling with himself, trying to keep them out. Blood, so much blood... betrayal...

Draco's hand settled on his arm, his voice rising as he said something, asked a question maybe, and Theo's eyes opened again and he pushed him away abruptly.

"Don't touch me!"

Draco drew back sharply. Stared at him. Then turned and leaned against the table, looking blankly at the wall across them. People were staring, now; Pansy had stopped pretending not to look.

"I'm sorry," Theo said immediately, not stepping forward to reach out to his friend. "I wasn't –"

"Will you ever stop being afraid of me?"

"I'm not."

"You're terrified!"

"I'm not," he snapped. "It was a reflex. It isn't something I can control. But I know you would never hurt me."

Draco laughed. Bitterly. " But I _did_ hurt you. That's the problem, isn't it? I let the Carrows – I cast the curse –"

Whatever Draco was trying to say was cut off short when Theo took three steps forward and gripped his shoulders, spinning his friend around. Forcing himself to look into his grey eyes.

"Draco, look at me," he said slowly. "You're my best friend. You know you are – I know you are."

His mind was racing. He had no idea what he was going to say – what he was saying.

"You're not going to hurt me. I know you didn't –" he had to force the words out, trying to accept them as truth – "you didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," Draco murmured, his eyes never leaving Theo's face. "I should never have done it.

The flashes were coming back, and Theo blinked twice. Hard.

"It's all right. I've forgiven you. It wasn't your fault."

Draco shook his head wordlessly, but still he looked into Theo's eyes. The silence stretched on. Theo kept his hands on Draco's shoulders. They kept their eyes focused on each other. At some point, Theo drew his friend closer and they fell into a sort of embrace that was warm, desperate, and somehow comforting. Draco might have cried. Theo stared straight ahead, trying not to think that the arms that were holding him had once held the wand that had sliced his skin open.

Draco said, "I'm sorry."

_I know. Gods, Draco, I know._

But was sorry ever enough?

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><p><strong>Ta-da.<strong>

**Rereading this, I'm not sure it's all very understandable, but it will be, soon. I hope. Please drop a review. :) Next update is next weekend, possibly over the course of two days since there will be three chapters, titles are:**

**30: I See You in My Nightmares**

**31: His Eyes **

**32: CHRISTMAS.**

**Guess away at who the characters are. **


	30. I See You in my Nightmares

**Woah!  
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**I'm not going to say "Slow down, people!" but... I got a lot of reviews this week (while I was at school) and have just finished reading them. They make me feel all warm inside, so thank you very much.  
><strong>

_Disclaimer:_ **Don't own HP!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 30<strong>

**I See You in my Nightmares**

**20th December**

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><p>The sweet smell of Christmas rose in the air, wafting from the kitchen. Her mother was making her best Christmas cookies and the smell of chocolate chip, nuts, caramel and probably more sugary things had invaded the entire house, mingling with the sharper scents of pine and peppermint. She wasn't about to complain: though she hadn't been able to keep food down since the Battle and had ended up throwing most of it up, her stomach had settled somewhat in the past weeks and she found herself enjoying the smell. Only the day before her mother had been baking gingerbread. Ron had complained about the aggressive scents of the spices, but she had liked them. She had nicked a piece from the kitchen, had eaten it in two seconds flat and had managed to hold it down. There was something to be said about her mother's cooking, especially her mother's Christmas cooking.<p>

"Ginny," Hermione said from where she was doing her homework at the desk. "Didn't your mother just call for you to go downstairs?"

"I think she wants me to help in the kitchen," Ginny said, looking up at the ceiling. She was lying on her bed lazily, doing nothing. "But that's probably not a good idea. I'd give everyone food poisoning."

"In that case, you should do your homework," Hermione said, dipping her quill into the inkwell. "Flitwick gave you an essay, didn't he?"

"School is ages from now, Hermione. I don't feel like working."

"_Ginny!_" her mother's voice, more insistent this time, rang out once more.

Ginny sat up and sighed. "I suppose I don't have a choice."

"Don't poison the cookies," Hermione said as she left the bedroom.

But when Ginny reached the kitchen, her mother was already taking the last batch of cookies out of the oven. There was no more dough in the bowl beside her. Harry, at the other end of the kitchen, was washing his hands in the sink; from the dough splattered across his red Weasley jumper, Ginny gathered that he had been helping her mother. She froze in the doorway and made to back away, but Harry had seen her. His green eyes fixed her, and she stayed, as though under a spell.

"Hello, Harry," she said, barely managing to force the words out.

"Hi, Ginny," Harry said, sounding almost casual.

Harry was still living at Grimmauld Place, but her family was now back at the Burrow, at _home_. Her mother had invited everyone over for Christmas – of course she had –, and Harry had come. He had arrived the previous evening, though it had been more like night. She had heard him arrive some time past ten, with an excuse about work keeping him in late. She had heard her mother tell him she was in her room, probably asleep – Ginny had told everyone she had a headache. She had woken up early, a rarity for her, at around six o'clock, just to avoid seeing anyone as she had breakfast, and had used the same excuse about her head to stay upstairs in her bedroom all day. Now, caught as she was in his gaze like a startled deer in the headlights of a car – that was one of Hermione's expressions –, she felt that Harry knew her lie.

"Sweetheart," her mother said, and Ginny wrenched her gaze from Harry's to look at her. She was raking the last of the cookie dough out of the bowl with a wooden spoon. "I called you down so you could eat. You didn't eat much yesterday, and you haven't left your room since last night because of that headache. You must be starving. The cookies are ready; you can have some if you like."

Ginny eyed the platter of cookies on the counter, then looked at Harry again. He was standing just in front of her now.

"I'm not... _starving_, really."

"Well, you need to eat _something_," her mother said. "Oh!"

The spoon in her hands squeaked suddenly and she dropped it.

"That'll be George," she said, looking at the same time pleased and annoyed. "He's been Charming everything in the house since he arrived. I think he's bored. Listen, Ginny, I'd feel better if you had something in your stomach. Hermione has gotten _so_ thin lately. You should both take advantage of the holidays to eat a bit more."

"Come on, Ginny," Harry said, lifting the platter with one hand and offering it to her. "I promise I didn't poison them."

Ginny thought of Hermione and smiled. "All right, then," she said, sitting down at the small kitchen table. "Just one."

"Well, you can't eat the whole platter anyway," her mother said. "It'd be nice to leave some for the others! Harry, see to it that she _does_ eat more than one, though, won't you? That's a dear – thank you."

Her traitorous mother left the kitchen, presumably to say something to George about the squeaking spoon, and leaving Ginny alone with Harry.

Harry sat down across from her, laying the platter in front of him. He handed her a cookie and took one himself; for a while, they chewed together in silence.

"Chocolate chip," he said after a moment. "And you?"

"Macademia," she replied.

Her mother's Christmas cookies had also earned the title of surprise cookies because, even though they contained different ingredients, they were indistinguishable before you tasted. For this reason, Ron, who hated raisin cookies, and Percy, who hated oatmeal cookies, never ate any. _More for me_, Ginny had thought when she was a child.

"So... Did you sleep well?" Harry asked after an awkward pause, brushing crumbs from his fingers.

"Fine," she lied.

"And how's your head?"

"Fine."

She was not going to make this easy for him. She didn't _want_ to talk. Why didn't he just leave her alone? Couldn't he see that this option hurt so much more?

"And how was Hogwarts?"

"Fine."

Harry sighed. "Ginny..." He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but she said nothing. "Ginny, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Can't we just talk the way we used to?" he asked. "I know you're not interested in... a relationship anymore, but can't we at least be friends?"

Her eyes snapped to his. _Not interested_? _She_ wasn't _interested_ anymore? Did he really think that was it – did he really think she'd stopped caring, just like that?

Did he really think they could ever be just friends?

"I miss you," he said quietly. Then: "Say something, Ginny, _please_."

"I miss you too," she said, so quietly she thought he might not hear.

There was a pause, and she knew he had.

Then Harry said, "Ginny... How long have you been having nightmares?"

She stiffened, and her face must have revealed some of what she was feeling because Harry explained, quickly, "The silencing spells, the locked door... I _did_ try your door yesterday, you know."

She knew. She had watched the handle lower, the door tremble. She had felt him hesitating to force it open with magic before finally walking away.

"I wanted to talk to you."

She said nothing.

"I do the same," he added, his eyes never leaving her face, waiting for her to react. "Every night since the battle."

"Me, too," Ginny heard herself say. "I never used to. I mean, it was pretty much a lost cause trying to get a little privacy when I was younger, with six brothers and all. Especially Fred and –" her voice caught – "and George. And at Hogwarts, well, you know. But since _then_, I haven't been able to..."

"Sleep," Harry finished for her. "Is it... because of Fred?"

His words were rushed and he looked wary, like he was scared she would burst into tears. But that was something her mother would do. Ginny rarely cried.

"No," she said instead. "I mean, partly, yes, but not only that. It's just..." She closed her eyes. "It's _them_," she whispered. "They keep me up at night."

She wasn't sure Harry had heard her, because the silence stretched out for an entire minute. Then:

"You mean the screams?"

"No," she said, opening her eyes in surprise, because it wasn't that at all. "The flashes of light. Green... And the faces. Every time I close my eyes..." She shuddered and stopped because she _couldn't_ go on.

There was another pause, even longer this time. She was eyeing the platter of cookies again when Harry said, in a voice so soft she barely heard him:

"I see you in my nightmares."

It was so sudden, so strange, that she didn't know what to say. Harry went on:

"Every night. The others are there, too – Colin, Padma, Lupin, Tonks... All of them. _Screaming_..."

His voice was tight with strain, not unlike the tone he used to adopt when shouldering his responsibilities. The tone he had used to tell her they couldn't stay together. She had to stop him, now.

"Harry..." she began, but he didn't stop.

"But the worst," he said, raising his voice to override hers, "is you. You're screaming, too... And I can't stand it."

And suddenly she realized where this was going, what Harry meant to say.

"_Harry_," she repeated urgently, "please, don't do this to me."

"_Ginny_," he said back, "please, just look at me."

She didn't understand what he meant until he reached out and tilted her chin up so she was looking right into his eyes. The eyes she had first fallen in love with – wide, green, and so empty now, so _pained_...

"I miss you," Harry said quietly, and his eyes seemed to mirror his words. "I've always missed you."

It was absurd, but Ginny believed him. He had only noticed her during his sixth year, only fallen for her that recently, but he was telling the truth now.

"Please, Ginny," he said again, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

And she tilted her head back, letting him kiss her.

It was a bland kiss, flavourless and strange. Passionate, maybe, but at the same time without feeling; brutal and alien. She could feel his arms around her and his lips on hers, but it was so unfamiliar, so impersonal that she felt like she was a third party, looking on disinterestedly as a couple kissed in front of her. There was no spark, no need, no love, _nothing_. Just his pain and her confusion, wrapped around one another for a single, torturous moment.

Then Harry drew back, or maybe Ginny did. She couldn't be sure. And he looked at her again, or maybe she looked at him. His eyes hadn't changed. They were still empty, still hurt. So hurt she had to look away.

They weren't the eyes she had fallen in love with. They, like everything, had changed.

And so had she.

"Ginny," Harry said again, but this time it was different. Before her name had rolled off his lips like he would never tire of saying it; now his voice, like his arms and lips and eyes, had changed. He seemed on the verge of adding something, but he didn't.

"I know," she said.

"I still –"

"I know."

"It's just... if it had been _your_ funeral," he said tentatively, "I could never have forgiven myself. I keep thinking about – about what could have happened, and..."

"I _know_," she said for the third time, and she meant it.

She couldn't love Harry anymore. She couldn't love this shadow of the person he had been, this shell broken, broken, broken by the responsibilities he hadn't wanted but had chosen to shoulder anyway. And he didn't love her, either. Oh, he missed her; she was willing to believe that. He missed what they once had, what they would have had. But that was the past now.

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><p><strong>Aside from my never having been the most enthusiastic HarryGinny shipper (though I sometimes find the pairing sweet), I liked this chapter. Probably my sadistic side.**

** I'm not trying to say that they aren't made for each other – just that they can't be with someone right now, so soon after the war. They're too hurt to deal with that. Ginny was able to see it earlier than Harry, but now he sees it, too. Please forgive me for breaking everyone up just for the fun of it. I just wanted to share something GottaGetBackUp said in a review which I thought was truly beautiful:  
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"I think everyone just lost a lot in the war, like with any war, and all these fics where they don't kill Sirius, Fred, Dumbledore, etc, just messes it up- while I hated that they all died, it was done for a purpose, because if there's a big war like that, people are going to die, and not just people you don't know- people you're close to, and killing off some of our favorite characters really shows how everyone loses someone."

** As always, drop a review to tell me what you thought of it! Also, whose chapters do you enjoy the most? Which is your favourite up until now?**

**And what's this new Image Manager thing? :D Going to have fun.  
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	31. His Eyes

**I love you all, readers.  
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_Disclaimer:_** Still don't own.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-One<strong>

**His Eyes**

**24th December, 1998**

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><p>The baby was born with blue eyes.<p>

She didn't know until some time later, when the little bundle was thrust into her arms by a smiling Healer. She was half-delirious during the actual birth, or so Katie informed her afterwards. The pain was almost unbearable; the Healers said she was too thin to deal with the strain of childbirth. She was sedated at some point, during or after the birth she couldn't say. Then she fell asleep. When she woke up, three hours later, a Healer was holding the baby.

"A beautiful, healthy little girl," the Healer said, smiling widely and thrusting It into her arms. "What are you going to call her?"

She didn't reply, just stared at It. It had obviously been sleeping, and before that It had obviously cried. Now Its eyes were open and looking vaguely around, unfocused. They were blue. That didn't mean anything. Many babies were born with blue eyes. She had blue eyes herself, so it wasn't surprising that It would, too... But she could tell, from a single look, that this wasn't just any blue. It was lighter than her eye colour, softer. It was... it was... They were _his_ eyes.

She gasped a little, and thought she might drop It. She didn't know what emotion flooded her then – relief, or grief, or desperation –, but it was stronger than any sedative and eliminated whatever grogginess remained in her.

"Your friends are waiting outside," the Healer said. "Would you like them to come in?"

She said nothing, but thought she might have nodded vaguely; at any rate, he did let them in. Katie rushed in immediately and sat down on the edge of her bed, cooing at It; Angelina, Lee and George hung back a little.

"She's beautiful," Katie said admiringly. "Oh, she looks just like you."

Aside from the eyes – how could she deal with having to face those eyes every day for the next seventeen years? –, It had her nose, her skin colour, and a surprising amount of dark curls that could only be hers.

"And what _eyes_," Katie said next. "She's going to be as beautiful as you, Al."

"I do like her eyes," Angelina agreed, drawing closer.

Alicia's heart tightened. Of course Angelina would say that. She had fallen in love with those same eyes. She drew It closer to her, as though to turn Its head away from Ange to keep her friend from realising just _where_ she had seen this shade of blue before. But Angelina reached out and tickled Its chin, looking deep into Its eyes. An expression of wonder crossed her face as she looked at the little bundle of life...

"Uh-oh," she said suddenly, "I think she's going to cry." She backed away quickly, and It did screw Its face up as though to start bawling.

"Hush," Alicia said, and surprisingly, It shut up.

"And she's well-behaved to boot," Katie laughed. "She's not going to be much of a handful."

"It had better not," Alicia said. "I wouldn't know what to do with It."

Katie looked at her oddly. "It? She's not an object, Al. Look – she's a little girl."

Alicia looked. It didn't look like a girl, just like a baby. Slightly red-faced, Its eyes only half-open and unfocused peering out from under very dark eyebrows, Its mouth open in a sort of toothless smile as It tried to look at Katie.

"She's _your_ little girl," Angelina added.

"She's yours, too," Alicia said. "All of you. She's going to need a whole lot of aunts and uncles, because her mother is pretty useless."

"I don't change nappies," Lee warned.

"Then get out of here," Alicia joked, then paused. "Oh, what time is it?"

Katie checked her watch. "Six-thirty."

Alicia gasped. "_Six-thirty_? But tonight's Christmas Eve – what are you still doing here?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just having a look around," George said. "I thought I'd fancy buying myself a newborn. What do you _think_ we're doing?"

"You had us scared for a moment," Katie agreed. "The Healers said it would be a difficult birth."

"I don't care about _that_," Alicia said. "George Weasley, your mother will kill me if you're not home for supper on _Christmas Eve_!"

"She'll understand," George said. "She has a thing for babies. You know, had seven and all."

"Those were _her_ babies," Alicia said. "And since you're one of them, she'll want you home for Christmas. Shoo. You, too," she told the others. "Go home to your families."

"Are you telling me you're going to spend Christmas with your mother?" Lee asked, arching an eyebrow.

Alicia fell silent. Her mother? She hadn't even _seen_ her parents in months. They didn't even know she had been knocked up, for Merlin's sake. She wrote regularly and replied to their every owl, but she had said no to her mother's invitation for Christmas. She wasn't about to have them see It. Her mother would probably be delighted for approximately one point two milliseconds before she realised she was now a grandmother, and both her parents would be disapproving once the initial shock had passed. She was only twenty and hadn't ever been able to keep a steady boyfriend for over two months. Her mother was fine with that – _"It's all right to take your time to settle, Alicia"_ –, but she wouldn't be fine with her celibate, unemployed little girl having a child of her own. And the fact that Alicia couldn't tell her who the father was wouldn't help things at all.

"They probably won't let me out of here in time for Christmas," she said evasively when she realised everyone was looking at her. "It's tomorrow. But that's all right. I _am_ with family. I have..." She looked down at It, cradled in her arms. "The baby."

"Doesn't look like it's going to be much company," George remarked. "I mean, apart from bawling, I'm not sure she can do anything much."

"Probably It can't," Alicia agreed. "But It's family anyway. Go _home_, George. All of you, go home. I mean... _Thank you_ for having been here, but you shouldn't have, not on Christmas Eve."

"What, is Christmas Eve the day you're allowed to be selfish, then?" Lee asked dryly.

"I thought that was your birthday," George said.

"Stop fooling around," Alicia said tersely. She looked at the girls pleadingly. "Go on, _please_. And take them with you."

"We can't leave you here –"

"You haven't seen your brother in three months," Alicia interrupted. "He's just come back from Saudi Arabia and he's looking forward to spending Christmas Eve with you."

Katie looked stricken. "I know, but –"

"Your family," Alicia continued, "thought they might never talk to you again after the Battle and want to spend as much time as possible with you."

"All right, all right," Katie said, looking angry for the first time in months. "_Fine_."

Lee mouthed a reproachful _Now you've done it_ at Alicia.

"But don't forget that _your_ family hasn't seen _you_ in months, either," Katie said flatly. "And that because we're your friends, we wanted to make sure you didn't spend Christmas alone. But if that's the way you see it, then we'll leave. Merry Christmas, Alicia."

And she marched out of the room.

"Damn," Lee said. "I should probably go after her, shouldn't I? She'll be moody all week."

Alicia nodded. "You should _all_ go after her."

"Oh, Al," Angelina said, "you're so stubborn. All right, then. If you really want us to, then we'll leave."

"Tell Katie I'm sorry, okay?"

Angelina smiled understandingly. "She's sorry, too." She leaned over and kissed Alicia on the forehead. "Take care. And Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Lee echoed.

The three made to leave the room, but only Lee and Angelina made it past the door. George remained inside and closed the door behind them. He turned around and retraced his steps. Alicia's blood froze in her veins.

"A baby is a gift," he said quietly, lightly touching her child's dark hair. "Don't forget that, Alicia."

"I would _never_." It was _his_ gift.

His eyes flicked to her for a second before he focused again on the baby. "I remember when Ginny was a baby... Our mum was always fussing over her. Babies need that kind of attention, Alicia. You're going to have to always be there for her."

Alicia felt her stomach clench. She could have sworn, from the strange cast of his head as he focused entirely on the baby, avoiding her gaze as surely as she was avoiding his, that he _knew_.

"She's going to grow up in a better world than we did," George said, his voice growing even softer. "You'll tell her stories about us, won't you?"

She said nothing. _Us._ Was that _us_, you and I, or _us_, our friends, or _us_, Fred and I? _Would_ she tell It about her past?

Would she tell It about Its father?

"What are you going to call her?" George asked finally, tracing the baby's closed eyelids with his thumb. It seemed to have gone to sleep; at his touch, It wriggled a little in Alicia's arms.

When she remained silent, his blue eyes turned to look at her, and though he meant nothing by it –_ he doesn't know, he can't know_ –, she found herself flinching beneath his stare. _Fred_'s stare, just as the baby had Fred's blue eyes.

Alicia found her voice. "Merry," she heard herself say. "Her name is Merry Grace... Spinnet."

"Mary?" George said. "As in Jesus' mother Mary?"

"No, Merry. As in happy. As in, Merry Christmas."

_Merry Christmas_, she thought, looking at her daughter – _their_ daughter – in her arms. Fred's last gift to her she would always cherish.

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><p><strong>Yeah... I managed to give birth to an OC... And I have no excuse. :-) Or remorse, for that matter.<strong>

**Next chapter up as soon as it's proofread.  
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	32. CHRISTMAS

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JK Rowling's.**

**For no reason at all except that I really, really love the song, go and listen to Last Christmas (Wham). I listened to it while writing this (and not writing, and pretty much all the time). **

**This is a monstrous chapter compared to the itty-bitty Chapter 31. It's over 4k. :D That means I've passed the 100k mark for this fic! (Also, the 90 reviews mark.)  
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><p><strong>Chapter 32<strong>

**CHRISTMAS**

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><p>Today was an empty day.<p>

A long time ago (it felt like years and years), she would never have thought to lack things to do at _Christmas_ of all times. She went places with her parents, places full of history and museums and books that smelled old and leathery. Sometimes places with beaches and the sea and the sun, which she had hated because it wasn't Christmasy. When she wasn't away she always had something to do, books to read, family to love, things to eat and Christmas to celebrate. But her books... Well, there was no saying where they were now. Maybe they had been thrown out. Maybe they had been shipped to Australia, and maybe somewhere in Australia, Monica and Wendell Wilkins had puzzled over them, wondering what had ever possessed them to buy _The Importance of Being Earnest_. There also seemed little point in reading about potions and spells now; whenever she thought about it she thought of bursts of light coming at her from all sides and people dying and hurting all around and she, ducking and weaving and hurling spells as fast as she could, and somehow she finally realised that textbooks would never compare to the horrible reality of battle.

In her boredom, she had taken to staying in Ginny's room for most of the day, watching from the window as her friend took out her broom and spent the morning – and afternoon, and evening, and sometimes parts of the night – flying. She would come in, knackered, for supper, and not say a word until they were alone in her room. Then their conversations were light-hearted and futile, almost like they used to be, but horribly shallow in the light of all that had happened. Sometimes, if it was raining outside for example, they would both go down to the kitchen to see if they could help with anything. But for the most part, she spent her days in idleness, not out of laziness, but out of lack of anything to do.

She would go down at around six o'clock, which was when Percy came, because Percy was still as interesting to talk to as she had found him when he was a prefect and she was much younger. He had a knowledgeable air about him, not wisdom or self-satisfaction but a sort of thirst for knowledge that she understood and shared. They could spend long minutes debating an inane subject, and when this happened she almost felt like herself again.

Today, a drizzly, dreary day, _Christmas day_, the knocks on the door were a half-hour earlier than his habit, but she guessed it was him and started descending the stairs. From the kitchen she heard Ginny say something. There was the sound of a chair being scraped back, and Mr and Mrs Weasley emerged and reached the door before her. Mrs Weasley loved it when her son came; she fretted almost every day that he wouldn't make an appearance. But he always did, and she always hugged him as though she hadn't seen him in years, and Percy bore it. He probably sensed that she wanted to make up for lost time, time _he_ had lost, and he seemed to enjoy the attention, most of the time.

"Hi, mum," he said today, his tone lacking its usual cheer. "Dad. Hi, Hermione. Merry Christmas."

Then he stepped aside to let a small, dark-eyed woman follow him in.

George wolf-whistled from where he had kicked his legs up on the couch. "Oi, Percy's got a girlfriend! Ginny, come out and see!"

Percy smiled tightly and said, "This is Audrey. My wife."

There was a split second's silence, followed by a crash in the kitchen as Ginny dropped a plate. Mrs Weasley's smile froze, and she suddenly looked like she was about to cry.

"Oh, Percy," she wailed, and then she did start crying.

Percy looked pleadingly at his father.

"A pleasure," Mr Weasley told Audrey, kissing her on the cheek. "Merry Christmas. Er."

Percy looked grim, but after a second, George burst out laughing.

"Well I never –" he started, and laughed again. "She's too pretty for you, Perce."

Audrey blushed, then smiled. She _was_ pretty, in a quiet, understated way, with straight brown hair and brown eyes and a warm smile.

"And she's Muggle-born," Percy supplied eagerly, in a flash of lucidity.

His father's eyes brightened. "You _are_?" he said, and immediately started asking questions.

Percy, meanwhile, slung an arm around his mother's shoulders and whispered soothing words to her. Hermione thought she heard the words _I'm so sorry_ repeated over and over again. This wasn't new; they had heard that almost every day over the summer. When he came over (every day), his face was drawn and pinched and he looked older than even Charlie. He was racked with guilt over Fred's death but there was something else as well, something concealed beneath the surface, beneath the cheerful tone he always adopted. And this was it, the secret he'd been keeping. During the time he had spent apart from his family, he had married.

Hermione watched him in silence, wondering where he had found the courage to bring this Audrey home, to break his mother's heart. Audrey was looking uncomfortable, but she answered Mr Weasley's questions with ease. She was wearing jeans and an oversized hoodie and no make-up. She looked very un-Percyish and Hermione thought she would get on very well with the family. She seemed awfully young, though; nineteen or twenty maybe. Mrs Weasley wouldn't approve.

Hermione sidled up to Audrey once Mr and Mrs Weasley went back to help Ginny in the kitchen.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Hermione. A friend."

"I know," Audrey said, smiling. "Percy has talked a little about you. You're Ron's friend."

"How long have you known Percy?" she asked. "We haven't seen him in ages."

"I met him at the Ministry," Audrey explained. "I applied for work experience there, the summer before my sixth year. He was the only one who said yes. He told me he'd have loved to have the opportunity when he was my age. I worked under him for three weeks. But I didn't see him again until two years later when I finished Hogwarts and started working in his office. He'd been promoted since the last time we'd met, but he remembered me. He invited me to lunch to catch up, and..." She shrugged and smiled. "It just happened.

"Then the Ministry started rounding up all the Muggle-borns, and we ran away. Well, I ran away in the dead of the night, and when Percy realised I was gone he came after me."

Percy laughed and slung his arm around her waist casually. "When I found her, I married her so she'd never leave me again, and then we hid for six months from the Ministry."

"Then _he_ was the one who left _me_ to go fight in that dreadful battle," Audrey said, her eyes bright with love and admiration as she leaned into her husband. "For which I still haven't forgiven him."

Percy winked at Hermione. "Give her some time, she'll come around."

"So we have you to thank for my brother's transformation from a selfish, pompous pat to a human being?" George asked Audrey. "I like you already."

"Thanks, George," Percy said, looking pained. "I knew I could count on your support."

"Anytime, mate," George said, reclining on the sofa. "So you work at the Ministry?"

Audrey looked uncomfortable. "I used to. But since the end of the war, I don't know, really. I don't know how they're organising it."

"I'm meeting with Kingsley later this week," Percy said.

"Yes, well, you'll be taken back, of course," Molly said indignantly from the kitchen. "You'll have your old jobs back if Kingsley's a man of honour."

"He said he'd try," Percy said, shrugging. "We'll see."

"Which department did you work in?" Hermione asked Audrey.

"I started off under Percy. Then I was relocated to Muggle artefacts, which is much, much more fascinating," she said with a teasing glance at Percy that told Hermione this was a constant argument between the two.

He smiled back. "Everything's relative, I suppose."

"No, I mean it," she said, turning her attention back to Hermione. "There's nothing more interesting – or appalling – than how wizards can trick Muggles. It's usually pretty complex magic, and very ingenuous. I was interested in curse-breaking for a while – Percy tells me Bill works in that? – but law is so faceted that it never gets boring."

Ron, who was sitting on the armchair across from George and who had been, until then, silent, made a face. "Law is so faceted it's always boring."

"No it isn't," Hermione said enthusiastically. "I know what you mean, Audrey. There are hundreds of sides to it – some aspects are so subtle – and some things are really barbaric, I grant you. I intend to –" She stopped suddenly, noting Ron's smirk. "Oh be quiet, you," she said sullenly.

"I haven't said anything!"

Audrey laughed. "Ron, is it?" she said. "Pleased to meet you."

"That's Ron," Percy said, nodding. "Ginny's the one who broke the plate in the kitchen – she's channelling Tonks, I think. Ah, here she is." He nodded at his sister when she came in. "My brother Bill and his wife Fleur. The pain on the sofa is George –"

"Oi!" George said indignantly.

"– and this is my older brother Charlie. And that's Harry Potter."

Audrey nodded at each in turn, somewhat shyly. Percy dragged George off the sofa and sat down with his arm around Audrey, possessive.

"All right," he said, "I know you're all bursting with questions. Ask away."

"How old is she?" George asked from the carpet, where he'd remained sprawled after Percy pulled him off the sofa.

"Nineteen," Audrey replied, smiling.

"Merlin," George said. "I didn't have you pegged as a cradle-snatcher, Perce."

"Do you like Quidditch?" Ron asked, and everyone laughed. "Because you can't be my sister-in-law if you don't, sorry."

Percy made a face. "Unfortunately, she's a big fan. She's been trying to convert me since we met."

There was a lot of clapping on the back after this, and George said, "Oh, you're perfect for the prat, Audrey."

"When's your birthday?" Ginny asked.

"November 30th."

"You're _really_ young," George said. "Has Percy told you his true age?"

Audrey laughed again. "Yes."

"Has he told you he was –" George puffed his chest out and adopted a pompous tone, complete with an Oxford accent – "A prefect and Bighead Boy at Hogwarts?"

"Yes."

"Has he told you about the time in his third year when –"

"All right, that's enough," Percy interrupted. "I don't want her to file for divorce!"

"What house were you in?" Ginny asked.

"Seems obvious," George said. "Bighead Boy would never settle for anything but a Ravenclaw."

"I was a Hufflepuff."

"Like I said."

Audrey smiled, and she had the same air of a Hufflepuff that Hermione had seen in Susan Bones, a sort of quietness about her that wasn't really shyness but something calmer, more peaceful.

"Would you like some tea?" Mrs Weasley said, emerging from the kitchen. "That was what Ginny was about before she dropped that plate – yes, darling, I know you didn't do it on purpose. I can heat it up quickly if anyone is interested."

"That would be lovely," Audrey said, and the others agreed.

The tea was served with chocolates of the kind that came in shiny wrapping paper and that melted in your mouth. Audrey took three, and George said, "Yes, you're absolutely perfect for him," and they all laughed. Percy disliked chocolate.

"All kidding aside, how in the blazes did he convince you to marry him?" George asked.

Audrey glanced at Percy, and there was so much affection and complicity in that glance that Hermione figured there was, here, something worth digging.

But Audrey simply said, "He deserved it."

Mrs Weasley seemed very put off. Hermione was certain she heard her mutter something about _the war_ and _people marrying left and right_. And Audrey _was _so awfully young, just over a year older than her. Would she marry at that age? How could she be so sure of her feelings? Audrey had started working at eighteen, the year Hermione had been on the run. She had worked at the Ministry for a couple months, maybe, before having to run from the anti-Muggle regime. And she had married Percy, whom she could barely know... Then again, Percy had given up his career for her and risked his life by going on the run. He was a pure-blood, he wouldn't have been bothered if it hadn't been for Audrey. Could you get much surer than that?

Still, Mrs Weasley most absolutely disapproved. Hermione couldn't see herself married, settled down at nineteen. She couldn't see herself settling down, ever. Percy's arm around Audrey. The fawning looks she kept giving him. Hermione had witnessed this already with Bill and Fleur when it had been their turn, and when Bill had been attacked by Greyback. With her own parents, even, when – d_on't_. They were all so sure of their love, so sure they wanted to spend the rest of eternity together. She didn't even know if she could survive a _minute_ alone with Ron. Or if she wanted to, or if _he_ did. It wasn't fair...

Audrey said, "So who here plays Quidditch?" and they started talking about that.

Hermione's head felt light all of a sudden. It reminded her of her fall that last time, her fall from _over-exertion and under-nourishment_. But she wasn't hungry, was she? Light-headed, faint, and slightly nauseous now. She was eating enough now, wasn't she? She had begged Harry not tell anyone about that incident (Mrs Weasley would have had a heart attack), so he was the only one who shot her disapproving glance whenever she picked at her food or skipped a meal altogether; in this house, he was the only one lucid enough to notice. But now, as she raised a shaking hand – shaking like a leaf – to her forehead, Molly caught the movement. And so did everyone else.

"Are you okay?" Ginny asked worriedly. "You look so pale..."

She dropped her hand quickly, hoping no-one had noticed how thin her fingers were. "Just a dizzy spell," she said. "I'm fine. I hit my head on a shelf yesterday, is all. Nothing serious."

Audrey made a pained, compassionate sound. "Ow," she said, "that's really painful, isn't it? Maybe you should consult a Healer if the pain doesn't go away."

"It's temporary," Hermione insisted. "Just a dizzy spell..." Then, to turn the conversation away from her health: "Do you play Quidditch, then?"

"A little," Audrey said. "Not so much since I started school. But I still love the sport."

This led to a discussion about favoured Quidditch positions, worst matches ever, most obvious foul ever, and then best players.

"Daniel Stratovski," Audrey said. "Hands-down."

George tutted. "You don't mean it, do you? The guy has no experience."

"Who needs experience? He's got _talent_. He _started off_ on the Tornadoes' main team, and they haven't lost a single match in two years. Dan was likely to play for England at the next World Cup."

"He isn't that good," Charlie said. "Mostly lucky, but his aim is only about average. Now take Krum, for example; that's a good player for you."

"You're only saying that because he's a Seeker, like you," Ginny said disparagingly. "But Dan _is_ good. He can fly."

Ginny was a Harpies fan, but in her room she had a poster of a young man, rakishly handsome, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, with bright eyes and a cocky smile. The name Daniel Stratovski was written in bold across the top, and the Tornadoes' emblem appeared in the top-left corner. Hermione suspected the poster's presence in her friend's room had as much to do with his looks than with his actual flying.

"He's not even in the business anymore," George said. "Have you heard anything about him since September?"

"Not since the war," Ginny retorted.

There was a silence after that as everyone took in what that might mean and remembered other disappearances, other losses. Audrey leaned her head on Percy's shoulder and he held her closer still. Mrs Weasley, who had, like Hermione, only been listening distractedly, suddenly turned quite white.

Then Ron stood up and said, "Anyone up for a game of chess?"

"I love chess," Audrey said eagerly, and Harry laughed.

"Not when you're playing against Ron you don't. He wins every time."

"Is that so?" Audrey obviously wasn't sure whether he was making fun of her.

"All right, I'll play you," Ron said, placing the chessboard on the low table in front of her. "White or black?"

"White," Audrey said decisively."

"Lay your bets," Ron told the others, but they didn't need his encouragement.

"Twenty-five," George said.

"Twenty-one," Charlie said.

"Thirty-three," Ginny said.

"What are they doing?" Audrey asked.

"Betting on how many moves he'll need to beat you, sweetheart," Percy said casually. "Seventeen."

She smacked him on the arm. "Shouldn't you be on my side?"

"I'd much rather be on the winning side, love."

"Traitor," she said, but she was smiling.

They played three games, and Audrey lost each one. She was a fair player and didn't let her defeats get to her; she took every move Ron made with a smile and laughed at her own clumsiness. Their third game was interesting and lasted so long that Percy lost the five Galleons he'd won after the first two; Ginny, who had bet on forty-two moves, was closest and took the money. Audrey laughed when she saw this and said _Serve you right_. Percy smiled.

"You are _not_," Mrs Weasley said after the third game, "going to spend Christmas playing chess."

"We're having fun!" Ron protested.

"It's past seven," his mother said. "I can bring out the appetizers if anyone is starting to get thirsty."

An enthusiastic chorus of voices greeted this suggestion.

"But _only_ if you put that chess set away," Mrs Weasley said. "Now is not the time. What will you all drink, now? There's Butterbeer, which I can heat up for those who want, pumpkin juice, Firewhiskey, hot chocolate, eggnog, coffee, elderflower wine, mead, tea... I believe we even have some of that red currant rum left over, don't we, Arthur? No, Ron, you are _not_ having Firewhiskey."

"I'm of age!" Ron protested.

"I will not _not_ have you drinking alcohol this early in the evening," Mrs Weasley said firmly. "Have a Butterbeer instead."

She jotted down the orders, frowned when Ginny demanded mead but served it anyway because it wasn't highly dosed in alcohol, and placed three big overflowing glasses of warm Butterbeer in front of Hermione, Ron and Audrey.

"This has been my favourite drink ever since Hogwarts," Audrey confessed. "We don't have anything like it in the Muggle world."

"What was your favourite before, then?" Mr Weasley asked with genuine interest.

"Pepsi," she said, and smiled at the looks on their faces. "It's a Muggle soda. Fizzy. Served cold. Very sugary. But at Christmas, I liked eggnog a lot. Now I drink pumpkin juice and Butterbeer all the time. I never tasted pumpkin juice before going to Hogwarts, but I love it."

Percy slung an arm around her shoulders. "My wide-eyed innocent Muggle-born," he said affectionately. "She still gets amazed at the most normal things."

"I hardly call a Howler normal," Audrey retorted. "I'd never seen one before."

"That must have been a funny scene," Bill commented.

"Think she screamed louder than the Howler," Percy said, grinning.

They all laughed again. Hermione thought this was going to be a Christmas unlike any other she'd had. First she was spending it without her family; she had begged her parents to be allowed to come here for Christmas and go back home for New Year's. Next, there was an underlying tension in the air, as though every laugh could at any moment turn into a sob. When she had been a child, Christmas had been such an innocent moment... She would give anything to go back to that time.

* * *

><p>Percy hadn't been thinking much when he had brought Audrey as a surprise. Mrs Weasley was awkward around her, and it became even more awkward when everyone realised that, of course, they hadn't bought anything for Audrey. But Audrey was an easygoing woman, and she wanted to put her in-laws at ease, so she assured everyone that it didn't matter, that she couldn't possibly have expected anything of them. She was the one who ended up apologising, and the Weasleys all reassured her. Percy himself had three parcels from his parents and brothers, who had warmed up to him greatly over the summer. One was from George, whom Percy could make laugh. Hermione had given him something, too; a book, naturally.<p>

"Oh, no," Audrey said when she saw it. She checked the cover. "That's a classic. It must be over four hundred pages long. He's going to spend all week reading it! Now you've done it, Hermione. He won't even look at me until New Year's."

"I've never heard of this author," Percy said.

"Of course not," Audrey said. "He's a Muggle. Known for having been paid by the page and for his long, repetitive prose."

"Beautiful prose," Hermione said defensively.

"For Merlin's sake, don't get her started on books," Ron warned. "Or we'll all still be here next week."

Ron she had given a Chudley Cannons t-shirt, which he had immediately slipped on over his new Molly-jumper. This made him look chubby and colour-uncoordinated, because the jumper was maroon and the t-shirt was orange.

"Ugh," he had said when he had unwrapped it. "Can you believe that Magical Sports ministers from all around the world have decided to cancel all official Quidditch matches for a _year_?"

"The teams are going to need time to reconstruct themselves, Ron," she had pointed out.

"Banning Quidditch," Ron had muttered, looking dark. "They're all out of their minds."

Ron had given _her_ a box of chocolate, creamy, pink-wrapped Chocoballs on one side, chocolate wands on the other, and the worst in the middle, two rows of small chocolate hearts. She had looked at him, he had looked at her, and he had looked away first.

She practically ripped the box away from Ginny when her friend's hand strayed to pluck a chocolate out of it.

Ginny had disappeared for a while, and it was only when she returned that Hermione realised Harry had been gone as well. She came back with a distant look in her eyes and a fine silver chain clutched in her hand; when Hermione pried her fingers apart, she saw it was a necklace. On the chain hung a small golden snitch which seemed to hum beneath her fingers, its wings fluttering every so slightly.

* * *

><p>It had been a long supper and an even longer evening. It was past two in the morning when Hermione finally reached Ginny's room and collapsed onto the springy mattress, sighing deeply.<p>

"I'm exhausted," she said.

"I'm stuffed," Ginny said, falling into a chair. "Brush your teeth?"

"Too tired."

"Think I'm going to be sick if I stand up," Ginny agreed. "Feel kind of tipsy, too. The world is spinning."

Hermione tried to look disapproving but didn't quite manage it. "You'll feel better tomorrow when you wake up."

"Tomorrow," Ginny said, brightening. "Think Mum'll mind if I don't wake up until two a.m. _tomorrow_?"

"Yes."

Ginny laughed, then winced. "Probably. Are you sure I can't have a little chocolate?"

"Depends. Can I have that necklace of yours?"

Ginny's smile turned sour. "I'm not ever going to wear it," she declared. "_Ever_."

"Don't say that," Hermione said. "You know he didn't mean anything by it. It's not like he was proposing or anything."

"That's the problem," Ginny said, digging into her pocket and fishing out the necklace. She clenched her fist around it. "It does mean something. It means _I'm sorry_. I don't want a pity gift, Hermione."

"That's not a pity gift," she said. "For goodness' sake, have you looked at it? I'm sure that's real silver and real gold. He probably spent ages looking for the perfect one. He was hurt when you didn't put it on."

"Well, I _won't_ put it on." She held her arm out. "Here, take it if you want it."

"Are you kidding me? It isn't mine." Hermione shook her head. "I couldn't take it. It's a Christmas present, Ginny. It's yours."

"I don't know," Ginny said, looking down at the silver chain. "It just seems so..."

"Beautiful? Expensive? Romantic?" Hermione suggested. "Tacky?"

"Stupid," Ginny finished. "As though maybe a piece of jewellery could mend our relationship. As though it would work out because he has a lot of money."

Hermione caught the glimmer of anger in her friend's eye and frowned. "I don't think he really meant it like that."

Ginny sighed and looked at the ceiling. "I know he didn't. Sorry, Hermione. I'm just... tense, I guess. My head hurts." She tossed the chain onto her desk. "Let's just go to bed, all right?"

"Yes, let's."

They dropped into bed, not even bothering to undress. Ginny muttered something, and the lights turned off. Hermione heard Ginny toss and turn around for hours, unable to find sleep. She didn't mind; she didn't want to sleep, either. But weariness won out in the end.

She awoke with a jolt, suddenly sitting upright in bed, sweating. She had had another nightmare; grey eyes and pain, as always. Something was tapping at the window; it was what had waken her up. An owl, at – she checked her watch – four in the morning. She got up, feeling strangely awake, and let the owl in – a small, black thing with fluffy feathers. It let out a small hoot as it flew into the room and held out its leg patiently.

"Shh," she said, looking at Ginny.

Her friend was deep asleep, her covers drawn over her head. Hermione untied a knot in black string, and the owl flew off again, leaving in her hands a small, black, velvet pouch, closed with a drawstring. She knew, instinctively, who it was from. Smiling, she loosened the drawstring and tipped the pouch over. Its contents spilled out onto her bed: a note and the gift itself.

It was a plain willow hoop, wrapped in bands of black leather, with a loop of leather at one end to hang it from. At the other end, large, white-tipped feathers hung from finer strips of leather. String was wound back and forth across the circle in an intricate pattern which reminded her of a spider's web.

A dreamcatcher.

The coloured beads threaded across the web spun on themselves endlessly, making the slightest whirring noise. They sparkled more than any ordinary gemstone; Hermione thought she could feel the magic in them.

_For your nightmares_, the note read. _It works. Merry Christmas. - D._

* * *

><p><strong>Well, what? We didn't hear anything about an Audrey in the series, but then, we didn't hear much about Percy, either. He was getting along pretty nicely at the Ministry under Fudge (and not too badly under Scrimgeour from what I understood). He lived someplace we never knew of, he had a regular salary and he was largely of age. I imagined him being already married, and I liked it and stuck with it. <strong>

** Next week is **The Most Obvious Thing** (Draco, Hermione, Theo) and then **The Mess that Was Slytherin House** (Theo, a little bit of Astoria). **


	33. The Most Obvious Thing

**School's out! Which explains the weird mid-week update.  
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**I have exams next week, but meanwhile I should have a bit more time to write. I haven't written much in a long time, so I'm happy. :) I'm thinking of writing a "Year Zero" fic about Hogwarts during the year Harry was on the run, or a "true" Dramione fic this time, or maybe something entirely disconnected from this work to get a breath of fresh air. I don't know yet. What think you?  
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**I've been fleshing out two very different ideas for Dramione fics, one called **Mission Accomplished** and the other one may be **Blood and Ashes**, but I haven't decided yet. I very much like both and think I'm going to settle on one as my next longfic, _probably_ the second one.  
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**This chapter starts off as pure fluff. :)  
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* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 33<strong>

**The Most Obvious Thing**

**3rd January, 1999**

* * *

><p>He waited for her at the Quidditch pitch. He knew she would guess where he was and would come to him eventually. Especially with the weather they were having. It was the first snow of the new year, and the flakes were swirling around in the air. He had always liked snow, but then, who didn't? <em>She<em> did, and that was part of the reason why she would come. Even with the Great Hall's charmed ceiling, nothing beat actually being outside when it was snowing. It wasn't even cold, or not unbearably so. The wind was strong enough to make the snowflakes dance, but not harsh enough to make him shiver beneath his cloak.

It was better outside. He had spent the holidays out here, feeling almost free. Since Azkaban, he found he couldn't stay in one place too long without either opening the window or pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Classes put a strain on him; he found his attention drifting more often than not. Theo could, with a look, make that feeling of imprisonment even more overbearing. Pansy tried to lighten it, but he felt too guilty about her for it to work. Only books seemed to make him plunge into another world and forget about the walls around him; that was one of the reasons he had taken to spending so much time in the library.

Sometimes, _she_ could make him forget, too.

When he had been younger, much younger, he had tried to catch snowflakes. They had always melted too quickly for him to get a good look. Back then, he had been disappointed, but today, when he reached out to catch a dancing snowflake, he smiled when it melted at his touch. Some things would never change, even when it seemed like the planet itself had flipped over on its axis.

He felt a smile creep onto his face when he caught sight of her, a few seconds before she did. Not very tall, cloak flapping behind her as she walked forward quickly, her head tucked into her shoulders. It had to be her; no one else would come to the Quidditch pitch in this weather and on the first evening back. The smile widened when she saw him, too, and waved. He nodded at her, and then she was half-walking, half-running over to him.

"Draco!" Hermione cried when she reached him.

She flung herself at him, unexpectedly, and he only barely caught her, stumbling backward as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Hey," he said when she pulled away. "Happy New Year. Did you have fun?"

"Oh, _yes_, very much," she said breathlessly. "I love this weather, don't you? I simply adore snow. It didn't feel quite like Christmas without snow."

She took a moment to wrap her cloak tighter around her. Her cheeks were tinted pink from the cold, and her shoulders and hat were covered in snow.

"Yes, I had fun. I saw Harry and Ron, of course, but all the others were there, too. Even Lee came over, to keep George company – Lee Jordan, you know, he used to comment a lot of your Quidditch matches."

"You mean the one who was so blatantly on Gryffindor's side?" Draco asked and she grinned.

"Yes, I suppose he was. But he was a good commentator, anyway. And I saw Teddy. You still haven't met him?"

He shook his head.

"He's adorable. I took some pictures, I'll show you tomorrow when I've unpacked my trunk. He doesn't look much like you, though – maybe the eyes, but I'm not sure." She glanced down at his right wrist, around which the bracelet she had given him was strapped. "You're wearing it."

"Have you tried the dreamcatcher yet?"

She smiled warmly at him. "No nightmares over the holidays. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She looked at his wrist again. "Do you like it?"

"It's okay," he said, toying with it with his left hand.

It was slender and discreet, just three strips of black leather braided together, with a silver nugget in the middle. He wasn't the jewelry type, but he could make an exception for this gift.

"You're not wearing gloves!" she exclaimed. "Aren't you cold?"

"I'm fine," he started to say, but she reached out and took his hands in hers, rubbing them vigorously with her gloved fingers.

"You must be freezing," she said.

"It's not that cold."

"How was your Christmas?" she wanted to know. "With Nott and... _Pansy_?"

"I've had worse. It was all right, really. Just... normal."

Normal. When had anything ever been _normal_ with him? But it was the truth. The holidays had been relief-inducingly uneventful, blissfully peaceful, and... _normal_. He hadn't known normal was possible anymore.

"Normal," she echoed, and he knew she understood.

He didn't know why he did it. He suddenly felt the urge to give her something. He drew his wand, and as she watched him quietly, no fear flickered in her eyes, only puzzlement. Why did she trust him, after all this time, after everything he had done? He didn't think anyone else trusted him. His friends in Slytherin... how _could_ they trust him? He flicked his wand; a snowflake stopped in mid air for a second, then slowly floated down to Hermione who had, in amazement, reached out her cupped hands. It lay there on her gloves, unbroken, unmelting.

"It's beautiful," she said softly. "I love magic." Then she looked at him and laughed.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinking..." Her eyes lowered to the snowflake again. "Before the war, did you ever wonder if we could be friends?"

"No," he said truthfully.

"Neither did I," she said, still smiling. "It's almost funny."

"If you say so."

He looked at her teeth, which the bright smile showed off. If he remembered correctly, she'd had longer front teeth than that, years ago. When had that changed? He hadn't paid attention.

"So that's what you call this, then? Friends?"

"Of course," she said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Do you know what I hate most about winter?"

The change of subject was so sudden it caught him off guard; the snowflake melted in Hermione's hands. "Wha – no."

"I like winter, in general," she said, looking up at the sky. "But I don't like that it gets dark so early."

He smiled. "I could teach you to like the night."

* * *

><p>She had convinced Draco to go back in time for the feast in the Great Hall, even though he said he wasn't hungry. <em>"Well, <em>I_ am,"_ she had said, and he had followed her inside. Supper had been uneventful but satisfying – she had eaten, she noted with some surprise, an acceptable quantity of food. Ginny, sitting next to her, asked her where she had been, and she lied outright. _"I was right behind you the whole time."_ Ginny didn't believe her – it was a terrible lie anyway –, but she didn't comment.

She had left the Great Hall before Ginny, thinking to stop by the library before it closed,

"Granger."

She turned around, wondering who could be calling her by her last name, and fell face-to-face with messy dark hair, pale skin and eyes as black as midnight. Theodore Nott was standing in front of her, looking cool and collected. Assessing, maybe.

"Nott," she said when she realised she'd been staring. "Do you need something?"

"A word. It won't be long." He looked around at the passing students and lowered his voice. "Privately might be better."

"What can you –"

"I have a warning for you."

Her blood ran cold and she backed away, almost bumping into someone behind her. Nott's voice was cold, and his father was an imprisoned Death Eater, and – a _warning_? The war was over. The war _was_ over. _The war is over._

"I don't see –"

"Not that kind of warning," Nott said.

Was it her imagination or did he look amused? She suppressed the panic which threatened to rise in her.

"It's about Draco. You've been spending a lot of time with him this year."

Was that it? She relaxed. "I have. So what?"

Again the amusement, and the hint of a disdainful smile. "Come with me."

He led her into a smaller, darker corridor on the side. She followed, wary but not overly afraid. He didn't _look_ aggressive.

"You want to talk about Draco?"

"Yes." He paused. "Don't spend any more time alone with him."

"What? _Why_?" She stopped. "It's because I'm –" _Muggle-born_, she was going to say, but Nott cut her off.

"No, it isn't." A wry smile curved the corners of his lips up, but this time it wasn't in amusement. The smile was faint, bitter, and self-mocking. "Just for the record, Granger, _I_ never took the Dark Mark."

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that your father –"

"My father," he said, "will be in Azkaban for the rest of his life. Everyone knows he was a Death Eater, Granger. You're not telling me anything I didn't already know."

"Let's say you aren't prejudiced toward Muggle-borns," she said. "Then _what_ do you have against Draco?"

He seemed surprised. "Draco's my friend."

"But then _why_ –" she began, annoyed.

"Just because," he said cryptically. "Trust me, it isn't a good idea to get too close to him. Oh, and, by the way." He held out his hand. "The war's over, so... Truce?"

She stared at him. "What did you ever do to me?"

"I'm in Slytherin. And I was Draco's friend."

"Yes, I'm sure that makes you a criminal," Hermione said, shaking his hand. "You don't have to do this. But I appreciate the gesture."

He nodded, then took his hand back. "Look, Granger," he started, then hesitated.

"Yes?" she prompted him.

"I'm serious. Draco is..." He paused again. "I like him," he finally said. "W've known each other for years. I don't like having to tell you this, okay? But he's not in his right mind anymore. Not since Azkaban, really. Maybe not even before. And he's done things that would make your skin crawl. He's a really skilled wizard. He could be dangerous."

"I think I can handle myself," she said icily. "He hasn't done anything –"

"Not yet he hasn't," Nott said darkly. "Not to you, anyway."

Then he turned around and started walking away. _Alone_, she noted. Had she ever even seen Nott around Draco? Why did he so suddenly seem to care?

Before he was out of sight, he turned, as though remembering something, and said, his voice loud enough to carry over to her:

"Please remember what I said. Just... think about it."

A few heads turned, but Hermione ignored them. He cared. He didn't want her spending time with Draco. Why?

_Be careful. _What did that mean? He hadn't been doing anything to her.

_Don't spend time _alone_ with him. _He wasn't against her seeing Draco... but if they were _alone_ she had to _be careful._

_He could be dangerous._

_ Not to you, anyway. Not yet._

"Nott!" she called, running after him. "Wait up – Theodore."

He stopped and turned when he heard his name. "It's either Nott or Theo, Granger, not Theodore."

She flushed. "Sorry. Look – you're being too vague. I don't –"

"You don't understand?" His eyes darkened. "I'll show you, then." He glanced around. "Here, come with me."

He led her back into the darkened corridor, and then into an empty classroom which, as far as Hermione could tell, hadn't been used in ages. It was dark and dusty, and the desks looked like they dated back to the previous century.

Nott caught her gaze and smiled. "I know," he said.

"You wanted to show me something?"

He looked uncomfortable. "It's just... If Draco put you in danger, they'd throw him back into Azkaban again. I don't think he could survive that."

"He's not putting me in any danger," she said, confused.

"Not yet," Nott said for the second time.

"You keep saying that," she snapped. "What do you mean by it?"

Nott looked at her so intensely she wondered whether she should be afraid. She didn't know him, after all. They had never exchanged a single word. He was a Slytherin, he was a pure-blood, and his father was a Death Eater. That was the extent of what she knew about him, and none of it was good. And here she was, alone in a classroom with him.

She found herself examining him. Nott was tall and slim, all lean muscle and sinew. She remembered him – vaguely – as the silent Slytherin with the constant bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. He had always been thin, scrawny almost, but he had grown now. His gaze was piercing and intelligent, not unlike Draco's really, but without the haunted look beneath the surface. Unlike Draco, who still looked like the life had been sucked out of him, Nott had thrived during the war. What had he done? He _said_ he hadn't been a Death Eater, but how could she know? He didn't _look_ like he meant any harm, but he would certainly be able to cause some damage. Her eyes quickly located his wand, up his left sleeve.

"I'm not going to attack you," he said, and she snapped her eyes back to his face. "Salazar. I'm not the one you have to worry about."

He hesitated again, then reached up and tugged at the collar of his robes, exposing his neck. Hermione gasped. There, a thin, ropey scar stretched across his collarbone, then twisted its way down beneath the dark cloth. There was no doubt in her mind that it continued its path down his torso, maybe even down to his waist. It was an odd wound that would have had to be inflicted while the victim was standing still, judging from the length of it. But why would anyone let themselves be cut this way without fighting back or, at the very least, stepping back? Unless... _unless they were restrained_.

"Draco did this to me," Nott said. "He didn't want to, but he did. It was last year, when the Carrows ruled the school. I broke curfew, and they ordered Draco to punish me." His lip twisted into a sneer. "Turns out the Carrows and my father didn't get along too well. They thought it would be fun to take it out on me, pure-blood as I may be."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, shrugging. "It's not like it still hurts. I just wanted you to know what Draco is capable of."

Hermione shivered and involuntarily glanced down at her forearms, where the scars, concealed by her sleeves, were almost as prominent as the first day. _Dark magic never heals._ One look up at Theo told her he knew exactly what she had been through at Malfoy Manor.

"He didn't have a choice," Hermione said forcefully. "He's free now. He won't hurt anyone ever again. He didn't have a choice," she repeated.

"There's always a choice," Nott said. "I made mine. He made his. And he was damn lucky Potter was noble enough to save him from Azkaban." There was a steely undertone to his voice, almost completely concealed by his offhand tone. "He _did_ do the things he was accused of, Granger. Don't ever forget that."

And he walked away.

* * *

><p><strong>Remember the chapter where Theo and Draco talked? I originally intended to give Theo a <strong>_**much**_** bigger storyline, but when I read over the first few chapters I was worried it might be too heavy; as in, too many storylines + too many characters = confused readers. So I cut out a few scenes, summed up the rest, and gave Theo a minor role – or as minor as I can give one of my favourite characters!**

** Admittedly, they're all my favourites.**

** How do you portray Theo? Is the Nott of your imagination anything like the one from mine – or not?**

**Next update by this weekend.  
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	34. The Mess That Was Slytherin House

_Disclaimer:_** JK Rowling is the amazing author of the Harry Potter books. I am not making any money from this, just having fun.  
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**At over 130 reviews, this fic has exceeded my expectations. Once again, thank you everyone... and don't hesitate to keep them coming. I am extremely flattered by the growing number of Alerts and Favorites for this fic and very pleased whenever I find one in my e-mail inbox.  
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**Here is chapter 34. Enjoy.  
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* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 34<strong>

**The Mess That Was Slytherin House**

**9th January, 1999**

* * *

><p>The Granger girl kept giving him strange looks when she passed him in the corridors. There was something irritating in the way she stopped and turned when she caught a glimpse of him, as though she might understand his motives by looking at him more closely. His <em>motives<em>. Was it truly so hard to believe a Slytherin might be telling the truth? He had just given her a warning. She hadn't heeded him, judging from the smiles and laughs Draco still drew out of her during Potions class. Well, it was her decision to make. He had been too circumspect, maybe; but it wasn't the Slytherin way to be obvious, and it wasn't Theo's way to openly betray a friend's secrets.

As always when his thoughts ran dark, his hand rose to trace over the scar that Draco had given him. The memories of that day flashed before his eyes – Draco, refusing to look at him until Theo spat in his face. The way he had looked Theo right in the eye as he performed the curse, slicing through his skin easily. The way Theo had refused to look away, had dared him, every step of the way, to go through with it. Excruciating pain. Gritted teeth. The hiss that had escaped his mouth even as he refused to scream. The blood welling up. And Draco – the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, and the way he had collapsed as soon as the Carrows left and started crying.

The door opened with a bang, causing him to jump out of his skin. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you!" a voice cried.

"_Astoria_?" he said in disbelief as he turned around to look at her. He stood up abruptly, hit his head against the top of his four-poster bed, and sat back down on the mattress again again, seeing stars. "What are you doing here? This is the _boys_' dormitory!"

"I was looking for you," she said, looking unperturbed. "I guessed you might be here – it _is_ quite warmer here than downstairs in the common room, isn't it?"

"Shouldn't you be in class at this hour?"

"I'm skipping," Astoria said, moving around the room and sitting down on the bed across from his (_Draco's_). "It's only Herbology. Shouldn't _you_?"

"Free period. You shouldn't skip classes."

"I can't concentrate anyway." She laughed a little, but there was nothing mirthful about it. "My grades have hit rock-bottom, and an hour of Herbology couldn't help that."

"What happened?"

As far as he knew, Astoria had always been a good student. Not as good as him, but more than adequate, and better than her sister by miles.

"You know what happened."

Their eyes locked. Sea-green met midnight blue and pierced his soul with terrifying accuracy. He guessed her next words before she said them.

"Don't you miss her?"

He knew whom she was talking about. He shook his head, quickly; not in denial but in refusal to talk about it. Astoria would not be deterred. She touched his arm gently.

"Don't you?"

"Of course I do," he said, slowly, as though she were drawing the words out of him by force; it almost felt like she was.

He missed her madly, wildly, desperately.

"She was my friend, too, you know," Astoria said quietly.

"I know."

"She was my _best_ friend."

"Mine, too," he said sharply. _Mine, first._

"I _know_ that," she said. "Theo, won't you just _talk_ to me?" She looked straight at him, her eyes wide with desperation, dilated black pupils trained on him. "I need to talk to someone. I need to – " Her voice broke. "_I miss Tracey._ I want to have her back, Theo. Where is she? Where _is_ she?"

He held his arm out, and she took it, clenching her hand around it, rising from Draco's bed and drawing nearer to him, half-bending over him as sobs shook her shoulders. He had never realised how much Tracey Davis meant to her.

_Tracey._

"She was so strong," Astoria said, her voice shaking. "I just... I never thought she could... Oh, Theo, I wish she were here. She was just so _strong_..."

Theo knew how she felt. There was something about Tracey, a sort of chin-up defiance and rebellion that made you want to take arms and ride into battle with her, made you forget your fears and the danger.

"She _is_ strong," he said harshly. "Not... _was_."

Astoria gulped down another sob. "Yes – yes, I'm sorry. It's just... sometimes I worry..."

"Trust me," Theo said, wrapping his arms around the wisp of a girl that Astoria was. "She's strong, and if she were here right now she would laugh at us both."

Tracey was like that, sharp-tongued and cool, almost callous. Part of it was her nature, but part of it had been beaten into her by Slytherin house. She had been the Slytherin outcast and had had to fight for her place in the house every single day. That was because Tracey was Muggle-born.

"Salazar, what a mess I am," Astoria said, sinking to her knees on the floor beside him. "I'm sorry, Theo. I didn't mean to make a fool of myself. It's just, she hasn't written in so long, and I..." She bit her lip. "I don't know which is the worse thought, that she's just forgotten me or that she... she..."

"She's not," Theo said. "And she hasn't forgotten us. She's not like that."

If Tracey had been quiet, weak and subservient she might have got away with a hex every now and then and with being the seventh years' lackey. But Tracey was outspoken and stubborn. She proved a talented witch, and she had the knack for guessing which words would hurt the most and then saying them. Draco had taken an aversion to her from day one – and so had Pansy, naturally. But Tracey proved to be more than a match for them, and Theo took to following her around.

"She wouldn't forget you. Or me. We know her, don't we? We're her best friends."

And what a trial it had been, to get close to her. Tracey was obnoxious despite her birth, so full of herself that at first she shunned Theo as harshly as she attacked Draco. Theo insisted, and promised to teach her things about the wizarding world – customs that were indispensable in Slytherin –, and she gradually let him in. Getting to know her had been as slow as courting a well-born girl, but without the parents – Tracey was her own guardian. He had had to tread carefully around subjects which irritated her and just as carefully measure out the correct proportions of flattery, humour, and questions. But she had grown less and less cold, until at last he had started drawing genuine laughs out of her. Her laugh was beautiful. It amazed him that she could be so warm with him, and so cruel with Draco.

_Draco_, who was so callous with Theo that it ignited his blood every time he received a scornful look, a smirk, an eyeball roll. It was like they hadn't been friends since they were six years old. Draco treated him with the same haughtiness he used when dealing with anyone else – and in exchange, Theo associated with the likes of Blaise and Tracey, both of whom despised Draco.

"I know that," Astoria said. "And that's what makes it even more terrifying. I almost hope she _has_ forgotten, because... because..."

_Because the other option is so much worse._

"Why hasn't she shown up, Theo?" Astoria asked. "The war is over, and You-Know-Who is gone. There's no reason for her to hide anymore, unless..."

"Don't talk like that," he said sharply. "There are plenty of reasons. You don't know what she's doing right now."

During their second year, the year of the Chamber of Secrets, Tracey had been terrified. Draco kept taunting her about it – something that Theo would never forget. Her insults had only become sharper; in contrast, she was even more gentle with Theo. He saw her cry for the first time in second year.

"I hope she's happy," Astoria said quietly into his robes. She had calmed down now; her voice was more steady. "I hope we see her again soon."

In their third year, Draco and Theo were the only two Slytherins to take Arithmancy. During the first lesson, Draco plopped down right next to his old friend and said, in a warm voice Theo hadn't heard since they started at Hogwarts:_ "Hey, mate. Right where you promised you'd be."_

And Theo forgot all his misgivings in two seconds flat. When they were seven, he and Draco had sworn each other to be in the same house and take exactly the same classes at Hogwarts. Theo wondered if he was truly so weak as to forgive someone he'd barely spoken to in two years so quickly.

He was.

Conversation in the dorms became significantly lighter, and Theo managed to convince his friend to _"lay off Tracey a bit, will you?"_ By then, Tracey had bloomed into a hot-blooded hellfire who yelled at Theo as often as she laughed with him, and she did yell quite a bit when Theo started hanging out with Draco again. By then, she had clawed her way into a semblance of a position in Slytherin, even growing to be somewhat friends with the two years younger pure-blood Astoria Greengrass, and she fought for it tooth and nail. She set herself on equal footing with the pure-bloods and half-bloods of Slytherin, and they hated it.

"You really love her, don't you?" Astoria asked into his robes.

It had never been about love, but need. During their fifth year, right after one of their arguments, Tracey had kissed him. Theo had never really thought much about girls, but after that, all he thought about was the feel of Tracey's chapped lips on his, fierce and demanding as she had always been fierce and demanding. Tracey's strength was what had first attracted him to her, and it was what now held him to her, like a lifeline.

And then there had been the war.

"If only things that been different..." Astoria whispered.

A Mudblood in Slytherin. Those who had only just begun to tolerate Tracey now turned on her, violently. Theo found her crying twice, and it hit him harder than seeing her bleed would have. Her strength was now as fragile as glass. He almost left her then, but humanity had the better of him and instead, he drew her closer still.

Then one day, during their sixth year, Tracey disappeared. She didn't show up for breakfast in the Great Hall. She didn't appear in class. And when Theo went to the hospital wing, a sick feeling of dread nestled in his stomach, she wasn't there, either. Muggle-borns had been disappearing for weeks, but Theo hadn't dared to mention it to Tracey.

She didn't receive or chose not to answer his owls. She vanished into thin air. None of the other sixth years mentioned it, and Theo drove himself nearly sick with worry for over a month. That was when she wrote him a letter. Just one. Just four words. Concise and almost sharp, like everything about her. _I'm safe. Stay alive._

He had thrown himself into _life_, studying efficiently, laughing with Draco and even joining the Quidditch team. Secretly, he gave a deeper meaning to Tracey's words and started asking Draco about the Dark Arts – Draco, who knew more about that than any of them – and had read books about how to go about defending himself against them. In seventh year, he'd been caught "borrowing" from the Restricted Section of the library after curfew and the Carrows had taken charge of his punishment during a Dark arts lesson. Draco had been chosen to perform the curse that had sliced through his skin and left the grotesque scar that twisted down his front. Theo had stood still, unrestrained, and his eyes had dared Draco to do it.

That night, Theo had seen Draco cry for the first time, and he might have forgiven him more quickly if Tracey's words hadn't still been resonating in his head.

_Stay alive_, she had written.

And he had. He had done more than that. He had learned and matured, both physically and mentally. He had grown._ Stay alive_. But was Tracy herself still alive? He hadn't heard from her since those four words, five syllables she had sent, over a year previously. She hadn't shown up at Hogwarts for either the rebuilding, the celebrations, or even just school.

_I'm safe._ He clung to the words like a lifeline, often taking her letter out at night to read it over and over again until he fell asleep. She had been safe. Why hadn't she come out of hiding yet? _Please, don't let her be dead. _Maybe Voldemort had got to her.

"She's safe," Astoria said, echoing his thoughts. Her voice was low and calm. "She's safe and there's a reasonable explanation behind all this and we'll see her again soon."

She had pulled away slightly, raising her damp eyes to his, and was looking at him steadily. Her gaze made him uneasy; she was a shrimp of a girl, very slight, but her bearing was proud and made her seem taller than she was. Her eyes glimmered with intelligence. Despite her friendship with Tracey, he had never been close to the younger Greengrass girl. She was a pretty little thing, but Tracey's strength and beauty had eclipsed her gentle manner and Theo had never paid her much attention.

"Well," he said. "When we see her again, she' s going to ask why you're failing all your classes, you stupid girl." He gave her a little push, making her stand up. "Off you go, Tory," he said, using Tracey's nickname for her. "To Herbology."

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><p><strong>More Theo, again. Don't be mad. I just think he's interesting <strong>

** I'm studying extra-hard at the moment, learning all those history dates and _boring_ geography stuff. The bright side is, after this, I'll _never_ have to hear about French, History, or Geography again. Or, well, not for another year at least. I suppose after that it depends on what I decide to do after high school.  
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**I really have no idea what career I'd like to have, but I'm pretty sure it does not involve urban planning in France, or regional development, or tourism in our overseas territories, so I'll be glad when I never have to open a geography book ever again.  
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****Next chapter is Monday, the day before my first exam, and it's called **You Had a Choice** – and Hermione and Draco are back, with more tension than fluff this time. ****


	35. You Had a Choice

_Disclaimer:_ **Rowling is a goddess and created and owns Harry Potter.  
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**Hitting 110k with this chapter... It makes me feel almost sad to think it's almost over! (I'm probably exaggerating. Still about 15 chapters to go!)**

**I think you'll like this chapter.  
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><p><strong>Chapter 35<strong>

**You Had a Choice**

**21st January, 1999**

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><p>When she strode into the library before breakfast that morning, he was already there, reading. His hair was messy, his robes slightly wrinkled, and there were slight circles under his eyes. She had never seen him this untidy; when he looked up at her and smiled, she decided it suited him.<p>

"Draco!" she said, wondering if she sounded as surprised as she felt. "Did you – did you _sleep_ in here?"

He shook his head. "I didn't do much sleeping."

"Merlin, Draco," she said, walking over to him. "Madam Pince would kill you if she knew. Aren't the Slytherin dorms comfortable enough?"

"It depends," he said evasively. "What are _you_ doing here at this hour?"

"I stopped by to give a book back before class," she said. "I'm not very hungry, so I thought I might as well stay here until it's time for class. I suppose you haven't eaten, either?"

He shook his head.

"What _have_ you been doing?"

"I had some research to do," he said simply, then yawned widely and stretched his arms out over his head.

"What kind of research could warrant –"

She froze, the words dying in her throat as she stared at him in horror. The wide sleeves of his school robes had slipped down a little when he raised his arms, and she could see the flesh on the inside of his left wrist.

Pale flesh. Bony wrist. Dark ink. The Dark Mark was branded onto Draco's forearm.

She recoiled in shock and horror – a reflex, she would tell herself later –, backing up into the bookshelf behind her. Draco looked confused for a moment. He followed her gaze and blanched.

"Shit," he said, hastily lowering his arms. "I'm sorry. The Concealment Charm – I just woke up and forgot to re-activate it. I –"

"It's all right," she said, hearing her voice shake and knowing it wasn't all right. "I – Harry always said you wore the Dark Mark. So I suppose I already knew."

"You didn't," he said. "I can tell." Then: "It isn't something I'm proud of, you know."

She looked away, suddenly wishing to be far away, wanting to be anywhere but here, with anyone but him. "Malfoy –"

"So it's 'Malfoy' again all of a sudden, is it?"

"I'm sor –"

"Damn it, Hermione, do you think I _wanted_ to be born with that name? Because I didn't have a choice!"

"You had a choice," she said, looking pointedly at his arm, "and you made it."

He looked shocked for a moment, and she instantly regretted it.

"Draco –"

The shock turned to hurt, then anger, and he slapped her outstretched hand away. "So it's come to that, has it?"

"Draco –" she tried again.

"I should have known," he interrupted her furiously. "I should have known that no matter what I did, it wouldn't be enough. Damn you, Granger! Here – look."

He roughly pulled his sleeve up, baring his left arm, where the Dark Mark still lay, lighter maybe than it had once been, and unmoving, but unmistakably branded into his flesh forever. She stepped back from it again, her back knocking against the bookshelf, suddenly afraid.

"You can't stop thinking about this," he said, stepping closer to her until he was in her face, trapping her against the bookshelf. "You were so – so _nice_. Like you couldn't remember what had happened. I thought you'd decided it didn't matter. But the truth is you've just been avoiding the truth because you were too scared of it, haven't you?" He was so close she could see the small flecks of blue in his grey eyes, a second ago so lifeless and now filled with barely controlled rage. His voice shook with anger. "You were trying to forget, but you couldn't. And now... you're scared of me, aren't you?" He looked at her, searching her face for something. "You _are_," he said. "You're scared of me. So much for Gryffindor _courage_."

"Malfoy," she said calmly, though inside, she was terrified. "Step back."

"_Malfoy_," he repeated, like the name tasted foul.

"Draco –"

"Shut up, Granger."

The words escaped her almost before she could think them. "So that's what Theo meant," she murmured.

She saw Draco stiffen, saw his eyes darken and his mouth close into a tight, firm line. And then he was out of her face and out of the library and gone, gone, gone.

And maybe it was wrong, but before the guilt came a wave of relief.

* * *

><p>Draco was a ball of fury when he entered the Slytherin seventh-year dorms that night, and it was headed straight for him. He closed his book, set it down on the table, and braced himself. He hadn't felt the brunt of Draco's anger in some time.<p>

"What did you tell her, Nott?" Draco asked, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. "What did you tell Hermione?"

_Ah._ So that was what this was about. Well, that was fine, then. He'd done nothing wrong.

"Granger? I haven't spoken to her –"

"Liar," Draco said, disdain dripping from the word like poison from a lance. "You lie, Nott."

Draco had always been able to see through him like glass. There had been a time when he liked this, thought it was a proof of their closeness. Now it was just plain annoying.

"What am I supposed to have said?"

"Something that might make her think _I was a Death Eater_."

"Oh, you mean _the_ _truth_."

Draco's jaw clenched, and his eyes hardened. "If that's what you want to call it."

"I usually call things by their proper name. So what's the problem?"

"I didn't think you were the type to denigrate your friends behind their back, Theo." Draco paused. "You _have_ spoken to her. She called you Theo."

This was news.

"She did?"

He concealed his smile, but Draco, Slytherin as he was, noticed it.

"Funny, is it?"

"She probably heard it from you, though. You were the first one to come up with the nickname."

Draco would not be fooled. "What did you say?" he asked."The exact words?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters," Draco snarled. "She's _afraid_ of me now. She never used to be scared of me!"

"That has more to do with your Dark Mark than anything _I_ might have said," Theo shot back, and Draco backed off, looking shocked. "Draco, I'm sorry –"

"How do you know?"

Puzzlement. "How do I know what?"

"That she _saw_..."

Theo looked into his friend's eyes, at his shocked, haunted expression. "I didn't," he said, feeling his heart sink. "I just said it to... spite you. It didn't mean anything. I didn't think..." He trailed off. "She saw?"

"She saw."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. It's not your fault."

That was true enough.

"Theo... What did you tell her?"

He hesitated. "I showed her... I showed her..."

Draco looked confused, and Theo bit his lip. He'd been hiding this from his – his friend? – from Draco for almost a year now. He had forgiven Draco. But if he knew, Draco wouldn't forgive _himself_.

"Theo, just tell me."

"I told her about that night with the Carrows," Theo finally snapped. "I told her you weren't yourself anymore. There. Are you happy now? Honestly, Draco – what did you think I'd told her?"

"You told her I couldn't be trusted," Draco said flatly.

"Yes." _But I do trust you, Draco._ "I'm sorry."

"Why do you care?" Draco looked puzzled. "You care nothing for Granger."

"I care about _you,_" he snapped.

"I wouldn't hurt her in a million years." He seemed so confident of this, so sure of himself. Then something seemed to hit him. "Showed her?"

"What?"

"You said something about _showing_ her."

Draco's eyes glinted with suspicion. He had never been an idiot. Theo was the one who could read people as easily as he read books, but Draco had always been able to see through _him_. Before Theo could react, Draco had reached out, grabbed a handful of his robes, and dragged him forward until their faces almost touched.

"You showed her," Draco said, his voice tight, "What happened then. How? A pensieve? Or..."

Theo felt an uncontrollable panic rising in him at Draco's proximity and he brutally shoved his friend off of him. "Get off me," he spat.

Something flickered in Draco's expression, and he backed away, raising his hands. "Theo, I'm sorry."

He had noticed, of course. How could he not? For a week after the incident, Theo had flinched at the sight of him. It was something he'd been dealing with ever since _it_ happened. A cold fear that overcame him whenever Draco was standing too close, speaking too loudly. An illogical, irrational fear that he thought he had got over.

"I'm sorry," Draco repeated. "I for –"

"You'd forgotten, then? Well, I haven't. And I won't." He pulled at the collar of his robes and bared his neck, revealing the scar than ran down his chest. "Did you really think the Carrows would let me get away with a scratch that could be healed in seconds? This is lasting, Draco. This is for forever."

Draco reached out to touch the scar gently; Theo flinched.

"I could have healed this..." Draco murmured. "I did it for Astoria. I could have healed it, and you... Theo..."

And there's no need to apologise," Theo said before Draco could say anything else. "I've already forgiven you."

"You have? Because that's a heck of a scar," a voice said coolly, and both Draco and Theo jumped and turned to look at the door. Blaise stared them down, impassive.

Theo immediately released his robes, letting them cover the scar again. He looked at Draco, and Draco looked at him. Something like understanding passed between them, and Draco gave the slightest of nods.

"It's not like you don't have your own scars," Theo said bitingly, and instantly regretted it when Blaise's cool façade dropped to reveal a flash of hurt. Then the mask was back up.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Nott" he said, his voice dripping venom. "I don't forgive as easily as you do."

He left the dorm, closing the door quietly behind him.

Theo glanced back at Draco, who was avoiding his gaze now, looking... vulnerable. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, because he had wanted him to admit his vulnerability since their sixth year. Theo genuinely liked Draco, but the blond pure-blood had never opened up to him. Actually, Theo had no idea why he cared what happened to Draco. They didn't even hang in the same social circles; far from it, really, because Theo disapproved of almost everything Draco represented. But Draco had to grudgingly respect him because he had just as much magical blood as he did. He was as good as him in most lessons and was clever enough not to follow Draco blindly. Besides, he was a much better liar and could smooth-talk his way out of any situation, so Draco knew better than to alienate him.

He had alienated Blaise from day one, though. Blaise, who was cool and distant and secretive in the same way an assassin would be. You couldn't trust Blaise, ever. He was a lot like Theo, actually, a smooth talker and naturally cunning, but he had a bit of a sadistic streak that had endeared him to Draco, and at the same time he was too proud to call anyone a friend. He hid in the shadows, unnoticed, only to come out when you got a little too cocky. He was cruel and smart enough to find just the words that cut to the quick. Theo got out of his way to avoid Blaise, and he really, really avoided talking to him. Blaise had a way of worming your most heavily guarded secrets out in minutes.

"Draco," Theo said. "I told you – I don't blame you for what happened."

"Of course you blame me," Draco snapped. "I'm the one who did it."

"You did a lot of things."

"Do you think I've forgotten?"

"Do you think _I_ have? Sometimes it's not about forgetting, Draco. Sometimes it's about forgiveness."

Draco smiled softly, a look Theo hadn't seen on his face in months. "You sound like Hermione."

* * *

><p>She should have known. She should have, because she knew Draco had definitely served Voldemort. It was something he couldn't even try to deny. And Harry had always said – but then, neither she nor Ron had believed Harry in their sixth year. They had thought his rivalry with Draco was what caused his accusations and his obsession with the Marauder's Map. And no-one had ever actually verified that Draco did not, actually, have the Dark Mark. It had seemed to stupid to her, so impossible – Voldemort's highest gift, of a sort, given to a kid who had never killed? A pure-blood, yes, nephew of Bellatrix and son of a loyal follower, maybe, but...<p>

It had seemed ridiculous to Hermione that Draco could have been a member of Voldemort's _inner circle_. And now that she knew it to be truth... A wave of revulsion hit her, and she saw her knuckles turn white as she gripped the edge of the table. What had he _done_? To earn it – maybe Voldemort had given it to him as a sign of trust that he could kill Dumbledore. But later, after his failure – _inner circle._ What had he had to do? As a Death Eater, he couldn't _not_ have blood on his hands, he couldn't _not_ have caused pain and destruction, he couldn't _not_ have seen death and known it was his fault.

He couldn't not have _killed_.

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><p><strong> There are some things about each other that Draco and Hermione had to forget to form a friendship... but they couldn't ignore these things forever. I very much like this chapter.<br>**

** Drop a review if you want to!  
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** Wish me luck for my exams! Tomorrow: History-Geography, the day after: French. Ugh!  
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**Next update is Friday: a return to the messed-up Black sisters.  
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	36. Blood of Mine

_Disclaimer:_ **Don't own, not making money off this.**

**Well... that's that done. French and History/Geography exams behind me.  
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><p><strong>Chapter 36<strong>

**6th February, 1999**

**Blood of Mine**

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><p>Since her first visit, Narcissa always came unannounced and uninvited. At first this had irritated her, had sent her heart leaping in her throat every time there was an unexpected knock at the door, but she had become used to it over time, learning to trust her sister again. Nowadays Narcissa was no longer greeted at wand-point, and they had lapsed into almost comfortable conversations. She had even agreed to meet Draco, probably over the summer, and if he met her seal of approval then he could see Teddy, too. <em>"Please, Andromeda... He's my son too, not just Lucius'."<em>

Narcissa liked Teddy, loved him really. The tender expression that came over her whenever she looked at the toddler woke an answering softness in Andromeda and reminded her of her childhood. She regretted having missed Narcissa becoming a mother; whatever Draco had turned into, she was certain Narcissa had given him as much love as it was possible to give. Narcissa was like a second mother – or grandmother – to Teddy when she saw him, hugging him eagerly, changing him without batting an eyelid, and laughing when he spat out food she was trying to feed him. She was infinitely more patient, infinitely more gentle than her sister. It mystified Andromeda, that someone who had flirted with the Dark Side for so long could seem so inherently _good_. Looking at her sister now, Andromeda could never guess whom she had married and what she'd spent the past years doing.

When their conversations weren't futile, they were focused on memories of their childhood. _"Do you remember the time when –? Do you remember this? Do you remember, do you remember?"_ Memories that seemed to glide over Bellatrix with ease, saying "we" instead of "she" and "us" to avoid mentioning "her". Sometimes she was omitted entirely, disappearing from a scene where she had played a pivotal role. Andromeda tended to push Bellatrix out of her mind entirely. Her memories of her should have blurred over the years, because she never called them up, but they hadn't. Sometimes a bright, sharp memory would come back to her, and she would have all the trouble in the world pushing it away.

Then one day, today, Narcissa said, "Do you remember the Christmas of Bella's first year?"

"Very clearly," Andromeda said stiffly. "The first of a string of bad holidays –"

"Not true," Narcissa said. "It was wonderful. Bella brought us back sweets she'd paid an older student to buy from Honeydukes, two great packets of Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's... even Blood Lollies."

"Oh," Andromeda said, feeling a smile creep onto her lips despite herself. "I remember that. She gave them to us and swore us to secrecy. She ought to have given them to Mother and Father and they would have dosed them out day by day, but she didn't."

"And she told us to be reasonable and you ate at least fifty chocolates in an hour and were sick all night," Cissy remembered. "And when she found you in the toilet at two a.m. she didn't even yell at you, she held you in her arms all night. And when you weren't feeling well the next morning, she covered for you and lied to Father and Mother. She said she thought she might have brought back the flu which was going around Hogwarts at the time."

"I remember," Andromeda said softly. "I... remember."

"You were her favourite," Narcissa said, a touch of envy – except it couldn't really be envy – in her voice. "She loved us both, but you were her favourite."

"I wasn't," she protested. "She couldn't stand me."

"In the end," Narcissa agreed. "But she used to love us both, you more than me. I was too complacent, too eager to please. She liked having you around because you were always in trouble with Father. She liked protecting you. We were happy, back, then, weren't we?"

Andromeda couldn't say, but Narcissa's voice was bringing the memories back. All of them.

Mother brushing their hair. "_My three lovely girls... Two peas in a pod and my little fairy princess." _Bella and Andy, who were so alike, and Cissy's blond beauty.

Playing hide-and-seek in their house. _"Andy, I know you're in there!" Bella shrieks._

Eight years old and at a pure-blood reception. _"Oh, how dull," Bella says, laughing. "I almost wish Mother had had a son, so we wouldn't have to go to these things." _

Bella going to Hogwarts. _"I'll miss you, Andy-Pandy. Don't cry, it'll be your turn soon enough, you'll see. Be nice while I'm gone, all right? Don't give your sister and parents a bad time. You're the eldest sister now."_

Her Sorting. _"Now we'll always be together," Bella says. "Lucius, this is my sister Andromeda."_

Narcissa's Sorting. _"I am so proud of you both."_

Memories of Ted, then. _Sparkling brown eyes, a lovely smile that sends butterflies fluttering in her stomach, and blood as muddy as a pig sty. "I think I love you," he says one day. She runs._

Bella: _"What's wrong, Andy? You don't seem like yourself lately."_

Ted again. _"Just forget them, Andromeda." (He's the only person she knows who will call her by her real first name.) "I love you." This time, she doesn't run. She lets him wrap his arms around her and knows she's a goner._

Their secret wasn't a secret for long._ Bella knows. She is beside herself with fury. Fear. Disgust. "Filthy blood, he's nothing but a Mudblood, Andy... Andy, they'll _kill_ you – Andy, why? Why did you do it? How _could_ you, Andy?" Bella is crying._

Later, so much later. _Bella has lost her sanity, but Andromeda can still see herself reflected in those bright, cruel, gleaming eyes. "I hate you," her sister spits. "You selfish _traitor_!"_

"Andy?" Narcissa sounded alarmed; she had slipped back to using the childhood nickname, which only made the memories more vivid. "Andromeda – are you all right?"

She realised she was crying.

Andromeda knew that Bella had loved her, more than she had loved Narcissa. Maybe she had loved her too much. If she had chosen Narcissa instead – gentle, faithful Narcissa – she would never have been disappointed. Maybe she would never have become the way she did.

"Andromeda," said Narcissa then, "would you like to visit Bella's resting place?"

The tears were still rolling down her cheeks, unchecked, but she felt a cold fury grip her at Narcissa's words. _Resting place?_ She had always known Narcissa was no coward. She was timid and admired their sister and parents very much, but she could be firm if she wanted to. She was capable of many things, but Andromeda had never suspected she could say a thing like this. _"Would you like to visit Bella's resting place?"_ Did Narcissa think that because _she_ was forgiven, Bella, by extension, could be? Had she forgotten who had killed Nymphadora? What could have possessed her to ask that question?

"I had her buried at Malfoy Manor," Narcissa said.

"Why?" she asked, surprised by the hardness of her own tone.

"_Because_," Narcissa said, equally harshly, "she was my sister. She was yours, too – once upon a time. Remember?"

_"When I'm older, I want to be just like you," a wide-eyed, six-year-old Andy tells her sister. "I don't want that," says Bella. "I want you to stay like this forever. I want to be your older sister forever."_

"I remember," Andromeda heard herself say.

It didn't even feel like so long ago that Bella had held her in her arms and said, _"I love you, sis'."_

"She's buried in the gardens behind the house itself," Narcissa said quietly. "Right beside the entire Malfoy family, and damn those who have anything to say about it."

"Your husband."

Narcissa bowed her head. "Lucius was against it, but I insisted. He saw my side of things, eventually. Will you come with me?"

"Now?"

"Now would be a good time, but the offer extends to... whenever, really."

"Yes," Andromeda said. "I'll come."

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><p>They took Teddy with them, using Side-Along Apparition. He was bawling when they Apparated in front of the gate to Malfoy Manor, screaming his distaste for this method of transportation. Narcissa took him from Andromeda and hushed him soothingly; he quieted. Andromeda felt a stab of jealousy. Her sister ran her hand along the iron gate gently.<p>

"Narcissa Malfoy. I bring two guests of my own blood. Let us pass."

The gate swung open without a word, and Narcissa swooped in, her cloak flapping in the air behind her. Andromeda followed silently, walking more slowly and taking in every detail – the hedge, the perfectly trimmed grass, the white peacocks. She had never been here before. The gardens were every bit like what she had imagined: expensive and overdone. The Manor itself was different. Old, respectable and imposing, it was beautiful in the way old medieval castles are beautiful. Narcissa led her around it, taking small, perfectly trodden path after path after path. Andromeda felt almost as though she were in a labyrinth.

They reached the cemetery eventually; it was far enough from the house that its morbidity didn't spread to the entire grounds. It was large, sprawling. You could see the remains of a stone wall that had once attempted to enclose it but had been knocked down when the number of dead grew too high. Stone after stone of black marble, arranged in well-organised, perfectly parallel lines rose up from the ground, conferring an austere aura to the place. They were all of the same size, a little higher than Andromeda's knee and square-shaped. None seemed to bear the marks of age and the words on every single one, written in gold, shone as brightly as the day they had been written. The place seemed ancient, like an eternal, never-changing place of rest; the only sign of change were the flowers which rested on three gravestones, two on the front and most recent line, and another a little behind and to the side. This last looked so out of place among this organised cemetery that Andromeda knew at once it was Bella's. She headed straight for it and knelt before it. The flowers were bright yellow narcissus, matching the gold on the grave. Andromeda mouthed the words silently as she read them, thinking they echoed the wails of her own heart.

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><p><em>The past is forgiven. I hold dear my memories of you. Sleep well, my beloved sister, forever.<em>

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><p>She wasn't sure who she was crying for. Her lost daughter, her lost sister, or herself?<p>

She cried.

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><p><strong>I think you can tell... that I am very interested in the (dysfunctional) Black family.<strong>

**The other day, I was brainstorming for ideas for a Dramione fic I've been writing on and off for a couple weeks, and I was struck by _another_ idea, so very far from any era I've ever written it that I had to go for it. :) Now that school's out, I can really focus on writing. I had forgotten how liberating it is!  
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**Next chapter is some Draco, some Theo (please tell me you're not sick of him just yet!) and is scheduled for Monday.  
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**This fic has is now on over 50 alert lists. It makes me very happy to know there are that many readers out there. Oo  
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	37. Don't Say That Word

**Two days ago, June 23rd, I realised how addicted I am to . I had the hardest time not logging in! Weird, considering that I usually go for five days without it and only have access to it on weekend.  
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**You may, or not, enjoy this chapter. I suppose it depends on whether you've had enough of Theo already or not! But, rest assured, there is some Draco.**

_Disclaimer:_ **Don't own. Thank you, Rowling.****  
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><p><strong>Chapter 37<strong>

**Don't Say That Word**

**3rd February, 1998**

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><p>"Theo..." Draco said suddenly. "Do you hate me now?"<p>

Draco was lounging in the common room for the first time in over a week. He hadn't shown his face here for days. He had been too busy trying to get Granger to talk to him and had only just realised it was a lost cause. Now he sulked on a couch, resting his chin on his hands, his expression closed and uninviting. The temperature had shot up a few degrees now that it was February, but the common room was still chilly and most of the Slytherins chose places near the fire. This corner of the common room was practically deserted. Pansy sat beside Draco, her own expression unreadable, but Theo thought he knew her thoughts. In many ways, they were very alike, Pansy and him. So attached to Draco fucking Malfoy... What _was_ it about him? He drew people close to him only to throw them away when he was bored, and they came back anyway when he needed them again. What was the sense in that? What had Draco ever done to deserve their loyalty?

"I don't hate you," Theo said finally, because even though his relationship with Draco had always confused him, he was sure of that at least.

Draco was a Slytherin. His only loyalty was to himself. Theo hadn't really minded at first; he had known it from the start. He had been friends with a boy who only accepted him because he couldn't shun him. When they had arrived at Hogwarts, he had been tossed away, then taken back when Draco once more had need of him. It had stung, but the ache had faded over time.

Theo had grown up with a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong and a black-and-white view of the outside world. Draco had, too, but Theo's black was his white. He had done all the wrong things, thinking they were right until he got in too far to back out. He had joined the Death Eaters and stained his hands with blood. And Draco was the one whose father had walked away from the Ministry unharmed except for a few weeks in Azkaban while Theo's father rotted away in prison.

Still, Theo couldn't hate his oldest friend. He knew Draco wasn't all bad. Take Pansy for example. At first, Theo had thought she annoyed him, but in truth, Pansy held a special place in Draco's heart. She could get away with saying things to him that no one else could, on either end of the spectrum – _I love you_ or _Draco Malfoy, you are a complete and utter moron_. Draco had always cared for her, probably – certainly – more than he had ever liked Theo. Her presence helped him be proud and domineering or alternatively, calm and gentle. Her loyalty was unfaltering, her friendship solid and constant. _Unlike mine_, Theo thought bitterly, but then, Draco hadn't been very constant either, had he?

"You have more reason to hate me than Granger does," Draco said, looking listlessly into the distance.

So that was it. Theo felt a stab of irritation that Draco's attention was, once more, not focused on him. He supposed he should be glad that Draco could worry about one person this much, like he did about Pansy; it meant he was still human.

"I've never really hurt her. Not physically."

Theo's hand jumped to his throat. Would he ever be able to forget it? Pansy's piercing eyes caught the movement and she shot him a sharp glance. Draco didn't tell Pansy everything, but she knew everything about him just the same. Theo tried to look innocent and scratched the side of his neck in what he hoped was a convincing absent manner.

"She still isn't talking to you, then?" he said, keeping his voice level.

"No, she isn't. She won't even look at me."

Pansy was quiet, uncharacteristically quiet. If it had been about anyone else, she would have reached out, touched Draco's arm, and said something encouraging; but at the name _Granger_ she had stiffened. Theo understood her animosity toward the girl, but he couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't some jealousy thrown into the mix as well.

"Well," he said, trying to sound casual, "it's not every day you find out your friend is a murderer."

Draco's eyes snapped to his. "Are you sure you don't hate me?"

"I'm sorry."

"I thought she knew," Draco said. "I mean, who _doesn't_ know? It wasn't even a secret."

Pansy couldn't hold it in anymore. "You tried to keep it secret," she burst in. "In sixth year, you wouldn't –"

"Yes, but since then," Draco said impatiently. "Everyone knows, right?"

It was the first time Theo had ever seen Draco interrupt Pansy.

"Well, it _was_ kind of hard not to guess," Pansy said stiffly, obviously offended. "What with the Carrows fawning over you and people somehow ending up all bloodied up whenever they crossed your path."

Again, Theo started involuntarily and again, Pansy caught the sudden movement. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"So she didn't know," Theo said, to draw her attention away from his hand – and his throat. "And so now she does. So what, Draco? She wasn't really your _friend_." Not the way he and Pansy were.

"That much is obvious, at least," Draco said. "You know what, Theo? You're right. I don't know why I'm getting so worked up about it, but I am." He shrugged. "She just made me feel... worthy, somehow. Probably because she didn't know what I'd done." He shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. "Stupid, really."

"Really."

"I do wish she would just talk to me, though," he went on. "This way, it's like she's not even angry at me. More like scared out of her mind. If she would just look me in the eye and tell me she hated me, then that would be fine. I could live with it. Like you said, we've never been friends. I wouldn't mind. I could probably hate her if I tried to. But she won't even look at me."

"I know the feeling," Pansy and Theo said simultaneously.

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><p>He knew they didn't mean anything by it, didn't mean to guilt-trip him. But the calm way they spoke the words, in perfect unison, caused a stab of pain deep within. There had been a time when he could look at both of them and have to fight back a smile; now he had to force himself to meet their gazes. In a way, it only made it worse that they didn't blame him, didn't accuse him of anything; it made him feel more worthless, more unworthy of them. He had never felt like this before. Pansy had been his friend forever, and he had been hers, and he had always felt they deserved each other. Theo was standoffish and independent. He had dated and been best friends with a girl who despised Draco. Draco had never worried about not deserving Theo, because Theo knew how to make his own decisions. Now, though, he wondered at his friend. This wasn't about decisions anymore, it was about reason. Theo had all the reasons in the world to hate him, and yet he didn't.<p>

_"I know the feeling."_ What did they mean by that? Had he truly ignored them that much over the years? With Theo, the implication was clear. He had completely pushed him away during their first couple of years at Hogwarts. But Pansy... Pansy was the one who had thrown Draco away. Granted, he deserved it after treating her the way he had, but he had never ignored her. Never. Unless...

_"In sixth year, you wouldn't –"_ He hadn't let her finish her sentence, but now it came back to him. What had she been about to say? _"You wouldn't talk to me."_ That had been true. He had kept her at arm's length that year, but it had been for her sake, hadn't it? She didn't have to have a role in the mess he had got himself in. He wanted to keep her clean, pure, perfect. Innocent.

_"I am not your doll, Draco,"_ she had told him once during their first seventh year. _"You don't protect me. We protect each other." _He hadn't respected that, that was for sure.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, looking up at his friends.

"I know," they said in unison.

He smiled a little. It _was_ kind of funny.

"Look, Draco," Theo said gently. "We know who you are and we're still your friends. Stop thinking about the girl. She doesn't matter."

If it hadn't been for Duce, Draco might have eventually given in and accepted that as a fact. Theo could be very convincing. Unfortunately for them, Duce was listening in on their conversation. Duce was a fifth-year who thought he was all that and who got on everyone's nerves, never a good thing when you had to share your dorm and common room with a group of Slytherins. He was good at making himself unseen when he wanted to, though, and that was what he had just done, settling silently into an armchair near the trio. He had already got into a fair number of fights this year, over stupid reasons, and he was itching to pick a new one. The kid loved teasing and bullying, but he was lousy when it came to actual fighting. He had ended up in the Hospital Wings three times already this year.

"Who's 'she'?" Duce asked.

"Only the girl he's been going on about since the beginning of the year," Pansy said.

"Oh, I've heard of that."

Salazar, did _everyone_ know?

"You mean the Mudblood," Duce went on in an offhand manner that chilled Draco's blood.

His reaction was instinctive and a hundred times more revealing than it had been on the Hogwarts Express. He stood up and in a flash, his hand had shot out to grab the front of the fifth-year's tie. He roughly drew him closer, until they were almost nose-to-nose.

"_Don't say that word_," he spat, pulling his fist back.

"Draco, no!" Pansy cried, rushing forward.

He saw the terror in the kid's wide eyes before the punch landed on his cheek with a satisfying crack and drew his hand back again. Duce cried out and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for another blow.

It never came.

Draco turned his neck to look at Theo, whose slender fingers were forcefully wrapped around his wrist, keeping him from moving his arm. His expression was as blank as usual, but Draco knew better. He knew how to read him. He could see in his friend's eyes a hint of the same terror that Ducehad betrayed.

"Let me go," he hissed.

"Lay off him, Draco," Theo said. "He's just a kid. He doesn't –"

"Let me _go_!" Draco repeated, trying to pull away.

Pain flickered in Theo's expression. "No," he said flatly.

And began to twist Draco's arm behind his back.

It was the kind of low move that older brothers might use when brawling with their younger siblings. It worked, of course. The pain in his shoulder and arm forced Draco to let go of Duce and turn around to untwist his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bastard scurry away. Theo immediately let go and stepped back from him.

And Draco lunged forward and slammed him into the wall behind him. "Why did you do that?"

Theo looked up calmly into his eyes. It was the thing that had always unnerved Draco, that had, when they were six, made him decide he was an equal. Where Draco easily lost control and became violent when he was angry, Theo never lost his temper. Not even when Draco's hands were roughly squeezing his shoulders and pinning him to a stone wall which had to hurt like a bitch when you were slammed into it. He felt a shadow of guilt and quickly pushed it away when he thought of the pain in his wrist.

"What would you have done to him?" Theo asked softly, his voice too low for anyone else in the common room to hear. And then, "I've never known you to resort to Muggle duelling. You know so many Dark Spells..."

And Theo would have first-hand knowledge of that, Draco thought, the guilt traitorously creeping back. He almost subconsciously loosened his hold on Theo's slight shoulders.

"What were you going to do?" Theo repeated.

_Hurt him_, something inside Draco whispered. He'd wanted,_ needed_ to hurt the kid badly for repeating the lies he had grown up around, for repeating a single word that Draco himself had casually bandied about for years. His hands fell to his sides and he stepped back from Theo.

He looked around the common room, meeting the eyes of the few who had chosen to stay after his outburst. Only his fellow seventh-years, predictably. Pansy and Goyle. In both of their expressions, the aversion and shock were plain. Even Blaise, cool, calm Blaise, even he looked unsettled. Draco looked back at Theo and was disgusted by the pity in his eyes.

He turned on his heel and left the common room.

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><p>He couldn't go to the library. Hermione might be there; and even if she weren't, he wouldn't be able to think there. He would look up every time someone opened the door and wonder if it was her. So he went to the Room of Requirement. The room where he had very nearly died, and the room Crabbe <em>had<em> died in after setting fire to it. Draco hadn't set foot there since the Battle. He hadn't felt the need to. The Room of Requirement had never been a place he liked; he had come to know it better than most during his sixth year, but he had hated it. Hated the secrets, the lies, the plots.

The door appeared the second time he walked past it, and he practically dove in.

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><p><strong> Sorry for the very long back story. This is what I meant by summing up Theo's part! I actually like this; but then, I'm the one who wrote it. I can only hope you're still awake after going through that.<strong>

** So... review if you almost fell asleep! :) And if you liked it. And for whatever reason, really.  
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**Next chapter is a quick, sweet return to Alicia (remember her?) on Thursday. And then a Draco-Hermione chapter on Sunday - remember they're not speaking anymore? Well, I think that one is one of my favorite chapters.  
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><p><strong>I have one more thing to say, and a ton of links to give. The first: "<strong>We are many, we are endless, we are tireless, we are anonymous, we are Legion, and we will not be ignored or defeated.<strong>"  
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**The rest (sorry, I had to be creative to get these links to show up... remove spaces, and the dashes in the nets and coms):  
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www .fanfiction . n-e-t / topic /78623/31298368/1/

www. fanfiction . n-e-t / topic/78623/29505225/43/

www. tumblr . c-o-m / tagged/ critics-united

www. fanfiction . n-e-t / topic/61196/16967487/1/** – I quote: "Flam request: Seen a shit!fic? Read a poorly written story that made you want to use bleach to clean your brain and eyes? Then post the link here and we shall look on to the story." Do you realise what that means? People are literally actively trying to discourage people from writing. React! To arms, readers! I can't think of a single worse thing to do to aspriring writers. When I first started out here, I was a terrible writer. I received encouragement which allowed me to progress - the type of "critique" given by these people would have destroyed me: ** media. tumblr . c-o-m / tumblr_m63bjd40mY1ql1ly8 .jpg

**Thank you for listening to me. Have a good day/evening/night.  
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	38. Plastic Grass

**Chapter 38**

**Plastic Grass**

**6th February, 1999**

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><p>She stared at the football field, at the plastic grass and rusty goalposts. It had been months since she'd last walked the thousand yards to here, not since – not since 17th September, the day she learned that Katie was back. At first, she hardly noticed she had stopped coming. Walking had become more and more of a pain, with a baby on the way, and it had seemed natural to spend more and more time locked up in her flat. When Merry had been born, there was so much to do that Alicia could hardly find a moment to sit down and breathe, let alone leave a newborn baby alone for hours while she stared at plastic grass.<p>

That morning, she had woken up with a longing feeling for the football field (or maybe it was just for fresh air), and after having breakfast and feeding Merry she had finally taken out the fold-up wheelchair Katie had given her and had set off, with Merry in her lap. Normally she would have thumped down the stairs and swung down the streets with her crutches, but she wouldn't risk walking with Merry in a carrier around her neck; the lurching movements would probably just make her cry. The Healers kept saying that she had to be careful because her baby had been premature, so don't do this, be careful when you do that, and avoid doing things like this was all she ever heard from them. As a result she was _extremely_ careful.

She stubbornly strapped the crutches underneath the wheelchair anyway, thinking she could walk around the pitch a little when they got there and leave Merry lying on a cloth on the field. And she found that it wasn't entirely disagreeable to roll forward easily and without effort. The wheelchair only required a few discreet wand taps (she made sure no Muggles were around, but even if they were they wouldn't have guessed) to be directed, and though she felt helpless at first, sitting this low, it seemed to fascinate Merry. Her eyes were bright as they tried to focus on everything at once; the graffitied buildings, the pavement, the occasional flower or fire hydrant. When they reached the football field, she let out a delighted gargle as Alicia picked her up, leaned over the side of the wheelchair and painstakingly placed her safely on the ground before balancing on one leg to unfold the cloth she'd brought. She knelt, leaning on her left leg, and placed Merry on top of the cloth.

Then stood up with her crutches and looked around. It _had_ been a long time.

"Hey," a voice said from behind her, "Long time no see, Alicia."

She looked over her shoulder – one did not spin around very quickly when one had crutches – and her eyes widened. She recognised her immediately, even though they had only met once, and months ago at that. The arrogance was a dead give-away; this was the girl who had broken her wrist.

"Candy?"

"It's Candace, actually," said the girl. "Candace Happleton."

"I _knew_ it wasn't your real name. Pleased to meet you... Candace."

"Likewise," Candy said, kneeling on the cloth next to Merry. "Oh, she's adorable. Is she yours?"

"Yes," Alicia said, smiling proudly. "She's three months old. Her name is Merry."

"Merry," Candy repeated, and Alicia could tell from the way she said it that she had got it right. Merry, not Mary. "She's got such lovely eyes."

"Doesn't she?" Alicia agreed.

"Cootchy-cootchy-coo," Candy said, laughing, as she tickled Merry's chin. "I love babies. Who's your father, little girl?"

"He's dead," she said shortly, and Candy pulled up short.

"I'm sorry," she said, after an awkward pause. "How did –"

"The war."

"Did you love him?" Candy asked.

There was no reason for Alicia to answer her. She was little more than a child. She had broken Alicia's wrist. She was rash and reckless and impertinent. And yet...

"Very much," Alicia said softly.

"I'm sorry," Candy said again, taking Merry in her arms. She looked down at her, as though seeing her in a new light. "He must have been very special."

"He was," Alicia said, and felt herself choke up.

She fought it, fought back the tears. She struggled to clear her throat.

"He wasn't perfect," she said thickly. "But he was special. He had a laugh that could light up the entire room. He was brave, funny, and clever. He could turn anything into a joke, and it was always a good one. I was eleven when I met him; he seemed to know so much more than the rest of us. He could be arrogant, he was never scared of anything, and he made us laugh all the time. He had a way of making you feel special just by smiling at you – he made _everyone_ feel special."

She told him about how he had almost been expelled on the third day of his first year for making Moaning Myrtle's toilet explode, and Candy laughed.

"He does sound pretty funny," she admitted. "He must have been a great person."

Alicia smiled, sadly this time. "I think he was. So does everyone he knew. So does his girlfriend."

Candy raised her eyebrows.

"Only I know who the father is," she said, "because only I knew we ever had that moment together. It was never meant to happen. His girlfriend was one of my best friends."

"Was?"

"We sort of... drifted, after the war." Meaning she still found it difficult to look Angelina in the eyes. "But we're mending it."

There was no blame in Candy's eyes, because what did a child know about these things? How could she grasp the extent of Alicia's betrayal? Alicia wondered, inanely, how old Candy was. Up until then, she would have said fourteen, maybe; now, she guessed closer to twelve.

"Why are you alone, then?"

"What?"

"You're dis... you have to use crutches," Candy said, and Alicia heard the unspoken word _disabled_ and flinched. "You have a baby. And you get around my yourself and when you see me – I'm practically a stranger, Alicia – you spill your guts out like you haven't spoken to another human being in years. Even the first time we met... you came here completely alone, just to listen to the birds.

"Alicia, are you lonely?"

Loneliness. Up until then, Alicia would have used the word _solitude_ to describe her situation. It seemed a softer term, less harsh than _lonely_ and more like _alone_. Hers was a self-imposed exile after all; what right did she have to feel lonely?

Candy changed her tack. "Merry looks a lot like you."

"I know," she said.

"I have a three-year-old brother. Sometimes I babysit him if my parents forget to call for a babysitter. They like to have a breather every now and then. Three-year-olds are very time-consuming. So are newborns. Do you ever hire a babysitter?"

"I'm not exactly rich," Alicia said. "I can pay the rent. I send something to my mother every month. I put some away. I won't pay a babysitter when I can take care of Merry myself. I don't work."

"But you're allowed to have a life outside of taking care of her," Candy insisted. "You could go out, breathe –"

"That's what I'm doing," Alicia said. "We do this all the time."

"Merry seems to like it here."

It was true. The child was smiling (it looked like a smile), gurgling happily as she looked around. Alicia wondered whether she had ever really been outside like this, breathing this air, seeing these colours.

She felt like she'd been sucker-punched. A cold feeling, something like horror, spread throughout her chest as she realised that the answer to that was _no_. Some of it must have been reflected on her face, because Candy said,

"Babies don't often go out at this age, anyway."

"Yeah..."

She was still shaken. How could it be true? Her daughter, her child, her baby. Merry was the delight of her eyes, the one thing that made this life bearable. She had thought she had been doing the best for her baby...

"Your wrist is okay now?"

"Yes, of course," she said absently. "The Healers fixed it in seconds. Thanks for bringing me to the hospital."

"Well," Candy said, "I _did_ break it, and I_ am_ sorry about that, you know. I didn't think you'd react – like _that_."

Alicia remembered the way she'd recoiled from the broom, as though it were a snake. "I fell. It wasn't really your fault. I was just... surprised."

"Surprised," Candy repeated, cradling Merry in her arms. "Have you flown since the Battle?"

Alicia looked at her. "How could I?"

"I don't know," Candy said, looking down at the gurgling baby. "Not with her around, I suppose. But maybe when she gets a little older –"

"Candy – I mean, Candace –, I can't even walk."

"Flying is nothing like walking," Candy said, and Alicia noticed for the first time that she had brought a broom; it was lying in the grass behind her. "And Candy is fine if you want."

"Careful with that," Alicia said, trying to sound like she was joking as she eyed the broom warily. "You could hurt someone. Or break _someone_'s wrist."

"Or I could fly."

"Or that."

"Or I could start a Quidditch team. My father would like to. He has this idea..."

"He's going to need a lot of money."

Candy looked at her oddly. "I can't fly very well," she said quietly, as Merry babbled in her lap. "My dad bought me this broom, but my school doesn't hold Quidditch matches or offer flying lessons. I sort of taught myself, but I'm not very good."

Alicia wondered where this was going.

"I really like it, though. I know everything about the game; the rules, the fouls, the history, the players. I wish I could be better at the actual flying part of it..." She looked up from Merry, straight at Alicia. "Could you teach me?"

"Teach you?" Alicia repeated. "I'm not –"

"You're good," Candy said. "You were on a professional team. You could tell me what's wrong –"

"I was a reserve," Alicia cut in. "I never actually got to play an official match."

"Only because you got... hurt during the Battle," Candy countered. "If you hadn't, you'd still be flying now, practising hard for some tournament or other."

"I know nothing about you." This seemed the right time to point that out.

"You don't need to," Candy said. "I've never been convicted of a crime and that I'm not an escaped Death Eater, if that's what you mean."

Alicia laughed. "That wasn't exactly my point."

"Well, it's mine. I'm not a danger, and I know you like me; I can tell."

Alicia thought about it, and found that she did. This dark-eyed, arrogant creature had grown on her in only two encounters. And the way she looked at Merry... It could have melted anyone's heart. It certainly did melt Alicia's, maybe because she was the mother.

"And one other thing..." Candy looked up at her, genuine eagerness lighting up her dark eyes. "I could babysit Merry."

She drew in a sharp breath, understand the implications. With Merry under someone else's surveillance – even if only for an hour or two –, she could breathe. Sleep. Walk around. Go out. Do something.

"All right," she said. "Shake on it. And now, let's see you fly."

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><p>Candy had not lied. She was not good at flying.<p>

She had an excellent broom, which had probably cost more than a year of rent for Alicia's flat. She was a fan, terribly savvy about celebrities and recent matches and historical facts. She knew the rules by heart and she owned a copy of _Quidditch through the Ages_ that was almost as tattered as Alicia's. But she wasn't very good at the actual flying part of the sport. She seemed nervous, unsure of herself – which could only lead to accidents. She was so tense that Alicia wondered for a moment if Candy wasn't scared of heights,but then she realised it was just a general lack of confidence because of her presence; the first time they'd met, Candy had been flying more easily, unaware that she was being watched.

Now she was a downright catastrophe, a flying (if you could call it flying) disaster. Even her position seemed off.

"Higher, Candy, higher!" she yelled, then glanced down at Merry.

She had been fed thirty minutes ago and was now soundly asleep in her arms, a blanket lovingly wrapped around her. Alicia was worried she would catch cold, but it was unusually warm weather for March, and Merry didn't seem indisposed. At any rate her little chest rose and fell evenly, and her cheeks were rosy with warmth. She whistled a little when she breathed out, and the sound warmed Alicia's heart. Still, she would have to take her home soon. She was just going to stay a little while longer, lying on this plastic grass as the wind ruffled her hair affectionately... Just a little while longer.

She realised, with some wonder, that she was enjoying herself.

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><p><strong>See you <span>Saturday<span> for a long-overdue (my feelings) Dramione chapter with some pretty fluff at the end. Thanks to the people who are still Favorite'ing and Alert-ing. And thank you to coleywalks9 who left a nice long review and whom I couldn't contact via PM. :)  
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**What do you think of the new review box? Oo I was stunned when I received in my e-mail "A new comment has been posted to your story." Um, really? What's a comment?  
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**I kinda liked my pop-up review box... Oh well.  
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	39. Like the Dark

**Chapter 39**

**Like the Dark  
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**13th February, 1998**

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><p>He had stopped stalking her. He no longer tried to approach her in Potions class, and he had stopped trying to talk to her in the corridors. At first she had found it easier to deal with. She had relaxed; she realised she had been afraid of him. But now she found herself unconsciously searching for him with her eyes in the corridors, and glancing at him every so often in Potions. She knew the feeling which rose up in her whenever she looked at him: guilt. But that was ridiculous. She had nothing to blame herself for. Or did she?<p>

He scared her. That was normal. The sight of the hideous Dark Mark on his arm had awoken too many memories and a horrible epiphany – that Draco had been one of _them_, that he had probably tortured and killed Muggle-borns like _her_. She told herself she knew how to defend herself, but dark magic was dark magic and she still remembered the lasting pain Dolohov's curse had caused her in the Department of Mysteries. She found she wasn't afraid of what Draco might do to her – if he wanted to harm her, he would have already done it; besides, he wasn't stupid enough to attempt anything at Hogwarts now –, but of what he had _already_ done. Whenever he drew his wand, she shuddered to think of what it might have done. She shuddered when she remembered Harry had used that same wand for some time.

It might not even have been fear. Maybe it was repulsion.

Whatever it was, it was fading steadily, giving its place to _guilt_, a feeling she absolutely despised. It made her feel as though _she_ were the one who had done something wrong, as though she'd been caught red-handed doing it, as though the scathing gazes she occasionally caught from Pansy Parkinson were more than deserved.

She searched her mind. She knew _what_ she felt guilty over: Draco and the silent treatment she had been giving him. She didn't know _why_. She had done nothing wrong. Had she?

As she remained deep in thought over this, her legs led her to the library, a place where thinking had always been easiest for her. She liked going there on Saturday evenings. _He_ hadn't been there in over a week; she had noticed.

He was there today.

He was wearing Muggle clothes, which was a first. Faded jeans and a dark blue jumper that stood out against his pale skin, now more golden than ashen. He had regained some weight in the past few months, pulling him more towards lean than underfed, but his hair was still badly in need of a cut, falling into his eyes and slightly curling up at the nape of his neck. He sat up straighter when she entered, surprise and puzzlement in his expression.

"Hermione?"

"Hello, Draco."

She forced out the words, still staring at him. She eyed his clothes, and he must have noticed because he smiled. She had missed his smile.

"They're comfortable."

"Like I don't know," she said, pointing at herself and at her v-neck jumper, jeans and trainers. "Never thought I'd live to see the day where Draco Malfoy agreed, though."

"Yeah, well. There are a lot of things I thought I'd never see." He barked out a laugh. "I feel like this is the hundredth time I've said this to you, but... We need to talk."

"I know," she said, and settled in the chair across from him.

He looked surprised. And he had a right to, didn't he? She had refused to even meet his gaze for the past two weeks. The first couple of days, he had tried to talk to her. She had moved away and told him to leave her alone.

"So you'll talk?"

"I'll talk," she confirmed.

"What –"

"I ask the questions," she said quickly, knowing what she wanted to talk about and what she _didn't_.

He paused, then nodded slowly. "Sounds fair to me."

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands and forcing herself to look into his eyes. "You hurt Theo?"

He flinched, surprised. He hadn't been expecting her first question to be that.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He swallowed. "It... It was last year. The Carrows asked me to punish him."

"And you did it."

He nodded.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Is he your friend?"

"The best."

She digested the information, then changed her tack. "How many people did you kill?"

"Five or six." He hesitated. "I know it sounds terrible, but I'm not really sure. At least five died by my hand. I participated in many more attacks."

The cold, dispassionate tone in which he parted with this information sent a chill running up Hermione's spine.

"Were they Muggles?"

"Not all of them."

"How did you do it?"

His expression darkened. "How do you think?"

"You didn't use the Killing Curse."

"No," he admitted. "I never was able to cast it. I – I tried. On more than one occasion. The Dark Lord –"

"Voldemort."

He flinched.

"It's _Voldemort_," she insisted. "Or Tom Riddle. Whichever. Even You-Know-Who if you want. But never – not that." She drew in a shuddering breath. "It makes me feel like... like you still belong to him."

He nodded. "V – _Voldemort_ and the Death Eaters would jeer and dare me to do it. But it never worked. I think you can guess why." He stopped. "In a way, it was worse, doing it the Muggle way. The blood..." He fell silent.

"Did you enjoy it? Did you think they deserved it?"

Again, he hesitated, as though weighing his words carefully, but his answer was firm. "No. I was terrified and I hated every second of it. I won't deny there's a certain thrill factor about holding someone's life between your hands." He flexed his fingers as if to demonstrate. "But it was more about terror and disgust than thrill for me. I don't _enjoy_ murder, Hermione. Do you think Potter would have testified for me if he thought that was true? I wish some things had never happened, but I can't go back and mend the past."

"Do you wish you could?"

He looked at her levelly. "Even if I could... what _could_ I change? I didn't – I'm not trying to make excuses, but I didn't have a _choice_. Trust me on this, at least. My family's history went too deep for me to avoid becoming what I became. I'd have to go back dozens of years."

"When did you get the Dark Mark?"

"The summer before my sixth year."

"What was it like?"

Surprised, again. "It..." He faltered. "I..."

She waited him out expectantly.

"It was the first time I saw the Dark Lord," he said shortly, intending to leave it at that.

Her brown eyes pierced his, but she didn't press him further. She waited patiently for him to tell her. She knew he would, eventually; it scared her how well she thought she knew him.

"The ones who wear the Dark Mark belong to the Lord's inner circle. At sixteen, I shouldn't have been... _honoured_ that way, despite my blood. But it was a – a punishment to my parents, for failing. To see their son branded and following in their disgraceful footsteps. He might have expected me to die during the mission. Or maybe he was hoping I would be more useful to him than my father, and humiliate my parents further. Who knows?

"During... it, he forces you to look into his eyes and say – things. Oaths. You pledge yourself to him." His voice had taken on a detached, dispassionate tone, as though he were talking about other people, people he had never met, people he didn't care about. "Your loyalty, your life, even your _wand_ become his."

He looked at her, the question obvious in his eyes. Did she know? Could she, a Muggle-born, understand what it meant to swear your wand over to someone else? Was the slight shimmer in her eyes understanding or confusion?

Hermione knew. During the Middle Ages, it had been a sign of fealty from servant to master, from wife to husband, given at coming-of-age ceremonies or weddings. The wand was representative of the wizard who bore it; handing it over meant giving everything that was _you_ to someone else.

"Then he takes your arm in his left hand. It's icy cold. He points his wand onto your flesh and screams the curse out. You can hear the other Death Eater jeering. You think your mother might be screaming. But then you realise... you're the one who's screaming." He was talking quickly now, as though the words spilt out of their own accord. "Then the pain becomes too much, and you black out. It was like – like an icy fire running through my veins, burning me from the inside out. And when I woke up, there was this."

He held his arm out. Hermione flinched.

"It's frozen now. Maybe paler, but that's probably just my imagination. It used to move, sometimes. It would writhe. And when the Dark Lord called us, it would burn. Like when it was first branded into us, but weaker. It hasn't moved since the Lord – "

"Why do you speak like that?" she asked sharply. "Us. The Dark Lord. Why?"

He looked at her, not understanding.

"It makes me feel like you still belong to him," she said for the second time.

"What makes you think I don't?"

She cut her eyes to his. "I _know_ you don't."

"So who do I belong to now?"

She reached out and lightly drew a finger across his cheek. He shivered, but held her gaze.

"You're your own man, Draco."

"Not true," he said. "Not true. What do you know about it? How could you know? You know nothing about me."

"Then tell me."

"There's worse."

"Then tell me."

And he did.

He told her about blood and screams and pleas. About curses and threats and crying. About hatred and supremacy and betrayal. About Mudbloods and Muggles and Death Eaters. About death and torture and suffering. About guilt and fear and righteousness. She listened to it all silently, and when he was done she finally asked him a question.

"Were you proud of it?"

"The Mark? Back then, yes."

"And now?"

"How could I be?" he shot back. "It's ruined my life. Everywhere I go, even with the Concealment Charm, people will see it. They won't see me, or what I've become. They'll only see this mark and what I used to be."

"What have you become?" she asked in a quieter voice.

There was a long pause.

"Human," he said finally.

"You were never inhuman," she said, reaching out to take his hand.

Then she turned his wrist around quickly so that the inside of his arm was facing upward and bared his left arm. He had forgotten – deliberately? – the Concealment Charm, and he flinched at her touch. But he didn't draw back.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.

She stayed like that. Tracing the Mark with her fingers. Running her hand up and down over the black tattoo that Marked Draco as _his_, as though her touch might give him something back.

"You shouldn't hide it," she said at some point.

He looked at her incredulously.

"You don't need to hide it," she said, "from me. You didn't need to; you shouldn't have. I would have understood. Don't hide it from me anymore."

He tried to withdraw his arm, but she held it down, her hand still covering his Mark.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"You don't have to apologise," Draco replied. "I'm the one who has to be forgiven."

"I've forgiven you," she said softly. "I think I forgave you a long time ago."

"Do you have your cloak with you?"

The change of subject was so abrupt it brought her up short. "_What_?"

"Your cloak," he repeated, and when she just stared at him he shrugged it off and said impatiently, "Never mind, take mine."

He stood up, gathered his cloak from where he had draped it over the back of his chair, and placed it securely around her shoulders. His hands lingered as he fastened it at her throat, a strange expression crossing his face, and she thought that for a second one of his fingers grazed her cheek, but she couldn't be sure. Then he straightened up, the odd expression replaced by a smile, and held his hand out. She noticed it was the arm that carried the Mark.

"Come with me."

"Where?" she asked.

"Trust me," he said, and she did.

She placed his hand in hers and followed him out of the library.

* * *

><p>"Draco, it's cold out."<p>

"I know."

"And it's past nine."

"I know that, too."

"So why are we here, exactly?"

_Here_ was the Quidditch pitch. She had known where they were going as soon as they set foot outside, in the evening winter chill. Call it instinct, call it friendship; she had guessed where Draco was headed. She couldn't fathom _why_, though. Curiosity had made her follow him, her hand still in his.

Draco turned to her and smiled, a grin that seemed to affect his entire body: he looked relaxed, open, friendly. Even though he was only wearing a sweater, he wasn't shivering the way Hermione was beneath the cloak, and his hand was warm and steady around hers. He seemed completely collected.

"Lie down," he said, and immediately plopped down on the grass. "Go on."

She sat down slowly, then lay down completely, flat on her back, very close to Draco because their hands were still joined. She closed her eyes.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"You know I do," she breathed back.

He didn't reply, and for a moment she thought the wind might have snatched the words away from her lips, but then Draco squeezed her hand and she knew he had heard.

"You're kind of stupid," he said, a smile in his voice, "but I like you that way. And by the way, you can keep your eyes open. In fact it's better that way."

She opened her eyes, still puzzled as to why he had brought her out here. She started to turn her head to the side to look at him, but his voice stopped her.

"No. Just look straight up – look at the sky."

She looked. It was pitch-black.

"Remember you told me you hated the way it got dark early in winter?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I love night-time," he said. "Look closely and tell me the stars aren't beautiful."

She looked. "All right, the stars are beautiful," she conceded.

"See that?" His arm rose to point at the sky. "Right there. That's the Big Dipper."

She had seen it only twice before. She was terrible at spotting constellations.

"And right here –" his arm shifted – "is the Little Dipper."

"You're good at this," she noted.

"What do you expect from someone who comes from a family where nearly everyone is named after a star or constellation?" he replied. "I was interested." He traced a sort of swirl in the sky of which one end curled around the Little Dipper. "See those stars I just pointed out? That's Draco. My namesake."

This time, she really did look closely. The stars of this constellation weren't very bright, especially compared to the other two constellations he had just pointed out. But as she focused, she connected the stars in her head, drawing imaginary lines, until the dragon leapt out at her, poised and coiled and majestic.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

There was a smile in Draco's voice when he said, "Told you I'd teach you to like the dark."

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><p><strong> My God did I have fun writing this chapter. It felt so... romantic. I especially loved the description of Draco in the library. Did you enjoy this?<br>**

**Next chapter is dated 14th February and is called, guess what... it's Valentine's Day. And, if I can say this without coming off as conceited, I like it. A lot. I'm not sure when I'll put it up, maybe right after my last exam (French oral) as a way to celebrate?  
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	40. VALENTINE'S DAY

**Chapter 40**

**Valentine's Day**

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><p>Neville knows you're not supposed to spend Valentine's Day visiting your parents, but he can't help himself. Tomorrow he'll be leaving to spend a week in an intensive Hit Wizard training camp, and he wants to tell them all about it. He comforts himself by thinking he'll bring roses to his mother, along with the usual chocolates, and anyway Elisia and Aminta – the nurses who usually look after his parents – aren't that much older than he is. So he buys a bouquet of roses from a shop in Muggle London – his mother is allergic to the magical, scent-enhanced kind and neither of them can stand the <em>clean<em> smell anything from the hospital shop has – and goes to their room, feeling perfectly satisfied.

When he knocks on the door, neither Elisia or Aminta opens, though both are in the room when he enters. Instead, a girl – scarcely a woman, he thinks – with long, pale hair and small dark eyes lets him in almost reflexively. When she meets his gaze, she starts in recognition.

"Hannah?"

Last year, when Neville found his old Dumbledore's Army coin and suggested they restart the group, Hannah Abbott was one of the first to eagerly jump in. She is a Hufflepuff, loyal and firm. Neville knew he could count on her. She has changed so much in just a few months; her hair has grown longer and her face thinner. But when she smiles at him, he recognises the Hufflepuff who once freed him from a Full Body-Bind Curse in third year, the girl he helped in Herbology once in fifth year, the girl who only last year spread Dittany on the cuts the Carrows had given him, the girl whose smile was worth every single one of those curses.

"Hi, Neville," she says, somewhat shyly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't face... going back," she says. "To Hogwarts. I mean, I tried. I went back in September, but it was too much. After three weeks I applied for an internship here, and I was accepted."

He smiles. "I told you you'd make a good Healer. But you wouldn't listen to me."

"I was trying to heal those cuts on your neck!" she protests. "You kept moving around and talking. _That's_ why I told you to shut up."

"You've met my parents, then?" he says, looking at them.

"They're lovely," Hannah replies. She looks uncomfortable. "I am so sorry, Neville."

"Please, don't be. It isn't your fault."

"You're training to be an Auror now, aren't you?"

He nods.

"I never thought of you as an Auror," she admits. "But you'll be good at it. Because you're very brave."

"Hannah –"

"I never knew, about your parents. And during the Battle, killing You-Know-Who's snake – that was really brave. And last year, the DA –"

"We did it together," he interrupts.

She smiles softly. "I'm glad we did. I'm glad you asked me to join."

So is Neville.

* * *

><p>He stops between the bookshelves, cocks his head, and looks at her. "Don't you believe in love?"<p>

Startled, she stares at him. "Don't I _what_?"

"It's Valentine's Day," Draco says. "The one day where you're allowed to make a fool of yourself and be overly romantic, and you're holed up _here_, in the library, just like any other day."

"Hardly 'holed up.'"

"You might at least have gone to Hogsmeade with Greg Skippins," he adds. "He seemed crushed when you refused. The guy's got it big for you."

She flushes. "He's fourteen! He's a kid!"

"He ought to be chaperoned," Draco agrees. "No reason why you couldn't do that while he paid you all the Butterbeers you wanted." He makes a face. "Though I've a feeling he'd have brought you to Madam Puddifoot's, not the Hog's Head."

"Oh, shut _up_ about Greg Skippins already," Hermione says. "How he ever made Ravenclaw is a mystery."

He smiles. "That's harsh."

"It's true."

"I suppose so."

He steps forward, leans against the table. She is sitting, cross-legged, on the table – Madam Pince would have a fit –, angled so that she is looking at him but can see, out of the corner of her eye, the lake outside the window.

"Even so," he says. "Why didn't you go to Hogsmeade? You didn't have to go with Skippins, necessarily; you might have been with anyone. Weasley, maybe."

"Ginny's on a date."

He arches an eyebrow. "What happened to Potter?"

She looks at him flatly, and he drops the subject.

"Well, Lovegood, then. Don't tell me _she_'s on a date, too? And even if she was," he adds hurriedly, "you could have gone alone. You love Hogsmeade."

"Not when it's infested with couples making gooey eyes at each other."

"So you choose to stay here, alone."

She turns slightly so she's looking directly at him, her back to the window. "Hardly 'alone.'"

"In not exactly desirable company, then."

She watches him, wondering just how blind he is. "Hardly 'undesirable,'" she whispers.

This time (finally!), he understands. His eyes shoot to hers and he looks, for a moment, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.

"What –"

"I _have_ been to Hogsmeade, you know," she interrupts. "Just long enough to get this." She holds it up. "I might share if you stop teasing me about Skippins."

His eyes travel from the box of chocolates to her face and back again.

"Deal," he says finally.

* * *

><p>Peter Daniels sits across from her, his glass of Butterbeer untouched in front of him as he stares almost avidly into her eyes. Ginny has never felt this wanted; Dean was tender, Harry was loving, but this is <em>needy<em>. She has been feeling oddly detached since this morning, as though she were watching with mild interest another girl on an awkward date. She looked on, almost amused, as the boy worked up the nerve to hold her hand. Bored, then, when they sat down at the Hog's Head for a drink. It isn't Peter's fault; he's not a bad sort, really. But it's becoming obvious that what seemed like a good idea last week was probably a very bad idea. She thought to change her thoughts a little; all she can seem to do is sink further into them.

She has never felt so lonely. What was it Hermione said the other day, the day she caught her vomiting in the girls' room? Amidst the _It'll be all right_, she said... _It's better to have loved and lost than never known love at all._ Something along those lines. Ginny let herself believe her friend that time, let her sobs and retches be soothed by Hermione's tone and words. But now... _Loved and lost. Loved and lost._ The words are still ringing in her ears. _Is_ it better? Is it better to ache like this, to have to be the strong one, the one who says no when the other can't stay away? Or would it have been less painful to simply never have attracted Harry's attention? And always, always that question: why did she let him go? Deep inside, she knows it was the right choice. That small part of her wars with the rest of her heart, struggles to stay alive; it's fighting a losing battle and it knows it. She regrets it too much.

Hence Peter Daniels. _A change of air to change my thoughts_, she told herself. Peter Daniels has had a crush on her since his third year. She knows, of course. It was obvious in his eyes when he saw her with another boy – Michael (worst mistake ever), Dean (sweet, too sweet Dean), Harry. She hadn't taken advantage of it. She wasn't interested in boys younger than her; they were too quick to get the L-word out. But Peter has grown now, into a rather fit, strong-jawed young man. He is taller than her now. So when he finally worked up the nerve to ask her out, she said yes.

It isn't really a date, she reasons. He only said, _If you haven't already got plans, maybe we could go to Hogsmeade together. Just... hang out._ But in his eyes she sees the truth. They are good eyes, hazel with more green than brown, but not enough green to make her think of Harry every time she looks at him. They never leave her own eyes, until she finds herself wondering what he finds so fascinating about brown.

"I'm glad you accepted," Peter is saying, finally deciding to take a sip of his Butterbeer. "Ginny, I –"

She stands up abruptly. "I have to leave."

He looks confused. Hurt. "What?"

"It's not about you," she says truthfully. "I – I can't do this."

She walks out of the pub.

* * *

><p>They spend Valentine's Day in her house. She's invited him over, or maybe dragged him over; it's that impossible to get him to get some fresh air. Some days, she can hardly recognise him. Lee has gone from bad to worse in the space of a couple of months. When she woke up from her coma, she was almost frightened of him, of the change that had occurred in the space of a few weeks' unconsciousness. But it's even more frightening to be awake and <em>see<em> the slow transformation, bit by bit, as her friend – and more – slowly drowns himself in work.

"Lee," she said one day. "Maybe you should take a few days off."

If looks could kill, then Katie would have died just then, because the glare that Lee gave her was worth any venom.

It's Sunday today, otherwise she wouldn't have caught a glimpse of him, she's sure. But it's Sunday and he can't go to work, so he's agreed to come. He's forgotten what day it is; or maybe he knows and doesn't want to celebrate. After all, they aren't _together_... Not anymore. If they ever were, really.

Merlin it hurts to think back to those times. She had thought, for a while, that they were happy. Lee wasn't the sort of guy who would just use a girl, and he didn't do that with her. He did something kind, as always; was attentive and loving with her for months. But kind wasn't what Katie wanted then, and so he moulded himself to her expectations with ease. She knows he loves her, knows he would give his life for her, knows he was sick with worry over her when she was comatose; but he isn't in love with her the way she is with him. She can't remember the exact day she realised that, but she can remember the pain.

She should thank him, really, for not continuing that mockery of a relationship.

She can't find it in herself to be grateful.

* * *

><p>Valentine's Day is a joke.<p>

So thought Narcissa when Lucius bought her a ring, a necklace, diamonds, perfume or anything ridiculously expensive. When she married Lucius, she loved jewellery. She still thinks it's beautiful, but now wearing the long rope of Chinese pearls she received as a wedding gift, or the dangling platinum and emerald earrings that only date back three years, or the thick silver bracelet worked into the likeness of a coiled snake she loved at first sight makes her feel more dowdy than elegant, more fragile than precious; in short, old and heavy instead of young, rich and beautiful (because she _was_ beautiful, once). Nowadays the only jewellery she wears consists of two rings she has never never taken off and never will: the sober ring of platinum engraved with the Black coat of arms, and her gold wedding band. Even Andromeda still has her Black ring; Narcissa has seen it on her right hand. And Bellatrix said, sneeringly – these things put her into a rage, because she had disowned Andromeda and Sirius – that Sirius was wearing his when he died. Narcissa wouldn't have believed it if it had been anyone other than Bella to say this; Sirius had fully abandoned his family. But Bellatrix wouldn't have lied about this.

Lucius loved seeing her shine, with gold at her throat, diamonds swinging from her ears, rubies on her hands. Or maybe he just enjoyed spending their fortune on his wife. She knew when she married him that he loved her, and that he would be free with his money when it came to showering his wife with gifts. He won't be having that pleasure again, not for some time – if ever. The exorbitant fine they had to pay took such a chunk out of their fortunes that their expenses have been greatly reduced. It shows in the cheaper wine they drink, in the fewer purchases they make, but also in the stoop of Lucius' shoulders. He thinks she blames him for their turn of fortunes, but she doesn't; it was their fault, not just his.

They still have enough to live. They could probably keep on living just as they used to for years, except then there wouldn't be anything left for Draco. That's the worst thing about the situation, really – they were hoping to leave something sizeable to Draco, as their parents did for them. Lucius received the entirety of the Malfoy fortune; Narcissa brought a smaller portion of the Black inheritance. They both used to think that their son would be a very rich man, but as it is, he might only end up with a few thousand Galleons. Narcissa doesn't think she could bear leaving this world knowing she hasn't provided for her son as well as she should have, and that's why she's lain a claim on the Lestrange fortunes, both Rabastan's and Rodolphus'.

Bella, her sister, was married to Rodolphus, and she was their closest family member. Rabastan and Rodolphus are on the run; Narcissa has no doubt that soon they will either be dead or imprisoned. Even if they aren't caught, they will never enter a bank again. The money is Narcissa's by right – she thinks – but Death Eater rights aren't the same as other people's. The Ministry could decide to take the money for itself, since Rabastan and Rodolphus and Bella – and Lucius – were all Death Eaters. If she _does_ receive the money, the Ministry won't be happy about it. Narcissa has dipped into their meagre savings to hire someone to defend her claim, and she hopes to win. If her estimations are correct, the money – astronomical sums – will be enough to fade her worries about Draco away.

Lucius knows of her initiative, and disapproves – _Calling attention to ourselves is hardly necessary now, Narcissa_ –, but he hasn't fired the man she employed or really argued with her about it, because he knows she's right. Because what counts the most in their eyes is their son.

She doesn't miss the money. She knows that if she does receive it, she will save every Knut for Draco, because she has realised she has no need of it. So if she does feel odd when Lucius wakes her up on Valentine's Day with a kiss and empty hands, she doesn't feel the least bit sad or wistful. It seems right, somehow.

* * *

><p>Molly's Valentine's Days have been blissfully happy for years, ever since she first started dating Arthur. She thinks this is the hardest one she has ever known. Molly has fought in the wars and knows how to deal with hardships, but her weak point has always been – and she knows it – her children. Right now, she can't stop thinking and worrying about her children.<p>

Bill has a beautiful wife who loves her and he's the one who causes her the least worry; he has always been an exemplary older brother. Charlie is alone but solid and old enough to take care of himself. It starts going wrong with Percy. Percy, she thinks, is responsible for at least half of the lines on her forehead. Percy who left them when he was only just out of childhood, Percy who ignored his father at work, Percy who always hated being poor... Percy is married now too, but his wife is almost still a child herself and they barely know each other. Molly worries.

There's George, and it's so hard not to say _Fred and_ George that she still catches herself making the mistake, and George's eyes will cloud up and there will be a dreadful silence in the entire room. Molly misses Fred so much she doesn't understand how it's possible, but most of all she misses George because George is alive and she feels like she should keep him close but she can't, he's slipping from her grasp and away from her. And Molly worries.

Then there's Ron, who is a big boy now, working at the Ministry. She's proud of him, so glad to see him again after his year on the run, but at the same time she misses the little boy she saw grow up. She never wanted him to be an Auror, because life is dangerous enough as it is and she knows Ron isn't _made_ for that kind of work. He'll be good at it, of course he will, but he won't love it like a person should enjoy their job. She can't shake the feeling that her youngest son is miserable. And Molly worries.

Harry has always held a special place in her heart, because the boy is an orphan and he needs and deserves to be loved, but why is it that he and Ginny can no longer speak to each other? They love each other, they are made for each other. Molly saw her baby girl at Christmas, and Ginny was miserable, too. She put on a good act but a mother knows these things and Molly knows her daughter isn't happy anymore, even though she's Quidditch Captain at school and her grades are as good as ever. And Molly worries.

There is one person she never worries about, because it's the other way around with him. _He_ worries about _her_. When Arthur hands her the flowers and kisses her fingertips on Valentine's Day, she knows all their worries are worth it. She loves her family too much to regret any of it.

* * *

><p>Petunia has never liked Valentine's Day. Vernon knows this, and though he insists on giving her flowers every February 14th, it usually stops there. Today, however – maybe because they missed this day last year, while they were in hiding – he took her out to eat at a fancy, white linen tablecloth restaurant. She wore a soft green dress which Vernon assured her looked lovely on her, and the perfume he gave her this morning.<p>

When they get home, she remembers why she has never worn this dress before. Lily looked stunning in green. Not _lovely_, as Vernon says Petunia does, but eye-catching, arresting. She remembers, too, why she doesn't like Valentine's Day. When they were children, Lily loved it. The year Lily was nine, what seems like ages before the Hogwarts letter, her class had to make cards for Valentine's Day. She made a lovely one with a bouquet of petunias on it, painstakingly copied from a gardening book and covered in glitter, and wrote in her best print, _Be my Valentine_. She gave it to her sister that evening, and was very worried because thirteen of the sixteen boys in her class had given her their card and she had nothing to give back. Petunia said, "Don't worry, I'll help you," and the two sisters had spent the night mass-producing cards. None of them were as lovely as Lily's original.

Vernon is in the shower; she can hear the water running. She opens her drawer, rummages inside, finds her jewellery box. There, at the bottom, lies a glittery, yellow-and-white card, slightly wrinkled from having been held one too many times.

_ Be my Valentine, Petunia._

* * *

><p>Angelina loved Fred. Maybe it wasn't the sort of love that would ever have led to marriage. She didn't know then, and now she'll never know. But it was enough for them, both of them, because they were only in their twenties and it was the war and they weren't looking for commitment. They were looking for familiarity and comfort. They kissed and laughed and held on to each other like a lifeline because it gave them a feeling of normalcy when their entire world flipped around on its axis. When he died, her heart shattered.<p>

She wasn't the only one. She feels selfish sometimes, embarrassed that she could even _think_ she lost something when she sees George every week and every time he looks a little worse. She knows his family took the loss hard, but George is the worst, and who can blame him? She can, that's who. She understands him, but at the same time she feels angry at him. Angry for making her feel guilty. Angry for slowly slipping from her grasp when she knows the one thing Fred would have wanted was for her to hold on to him, to keep him from fading away into nothingness. George has to stay. George has to live.

That is why she is here today, even though there has never been anything even vaguely romantic between her and George. She couldn't ask Lee to stay, because he's spending so much time at work nowadays she would feel guilty dragging him away from Katie on Valentine's Day. And she couldn't leave George alone; he hasn't been alone for a second since the Battle and she still doesn't trust him enough. So she is spending Valentine's Day in the flat above the twins' shop.

"I'm not a child, Ange," George says when she shows up at the door that morning, knowing very well what she's here for. "I don't need a baby-sitter."

"I'm not your baby-sitter," she says. "I'm your friend."

"Valentine's Day is not a day for friends to spend together."

"Then I'll be your Valentine," she says recklessly. "If that's what it takes. But like it or not, George, I'm staying."

He looks at her, a soft smile on his lips. "Like," he says finally.

"What?"

"Like it or not, you're staying," he repeats. "So I've decided to like it."

Angelina loves George, too. George is a mess, a broken soul, a half of something that was once whole and never again will be. She loves him because he needs her like he needs oxygen. She loves him because he has lost the same thing as her, and maybe, if they just try, the broken pieces of their hearts will fit together. Not perfectly, because some chips are lost to them forever, but well enough to provide comfort and warmth. And maybe that will be enough for them, one day.

* * *

><p><strong>For Valentine's Day, I wanted to do something a little different. Hence the format of the chapter, the present tense and the constant POV switching. Everything will be back to normal for the next chapter. Whose drabble did you like best? I have a soft spot for Narcissa's.<strong>


	41. I Believe in You

**Terrible cutesy stuff ahead. You have been warned.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty-One<strong>

**I Believe In You**

**3rd March, 1999**

* * *

><p>She had wanted to use the Room of Requirement as a practice room. Draco had refused to be convinced; she had eventually learnt that he hated the place with a passion after everything that had happened there. It had come as a surprise to her, because she found that despite having nearly died there from Crabbe's Fiendfyre, she cherished her memories of the place – the DA in sixth year, mostly. Draco, on the other hand, despised it; he admitted to being surprised, and not in a positive way, to learn that it had escaped destruction at the hands of the Fiendfyre. And he had flat out refused to set foot there on a regular basis again. She had relented, because there was no point in trying to create good memories for him in a place he couldn't stand.<p>

She had suggested the lake, then. "Too open," he had said. "Too many people."

_Too cold_, she had thought, but evidently he didn't mind because his next words were, "The forest."

"The Forbidden Forest?" she repeated. "Are you sure?"

She remembered how, in their first year, he had been terrified of the place. It didn't exactly have the atmosphere for Patronus teaching. Hermione felt it was rather too gloomy.

"I'm sure," he said, shooting her an annoyed glance which told her he knew exactly what she'd been thinking of. "It's quiet. If we don't go too far inside..."

"It's off-limits, though," she said, wondering how a sane person could possibly choose the Forbidden Forest over the Room of Requirement.

"Well, it's that or the Quidditch pitch," he had said, tipping his chair back so it was balancing on only two legs. "I don't have any more ideas."

He was obviously surprised when she seized upon the idea and chose the Quidditch pitch. It wasn't exactly ideal; they tended to hide in the spaces beneath the bleachers if a team was practising, and Draco would get distracted by the practices. But she had seen the look on his face when he spoke about the game. If they were going to create the best memories of his life, why not start here?

"Tell me about Quidditch," she had said the first time they sat down in the grass right in the middle of the pitch. "What makes it so great?"

She knew she had landed on the right subject as soon as he started describing it.

"I don't think it makes me happy, exactly," he said. "It just helps me forget about all the things that _don't_ make me happy for a couple hours. It's not just flying, either; it's Quidditch. I mean, I love flying. But it's the competition..." His voice was low, passionate. "Catching the Snitch. Having an opponent in front of you and a team behind you..."

"You played well, this year," she said.

He looked at her, startled. "You watched?"

"Every time, I was there. I saw. I cheered you on."

He smiled. "I wanted to win the Cup, this year... To be remembered for something other than..." He trailed off.

"I think you could do it," she said. "You beat Ravenclaw spectacularly in your first match. Ginny couldn't believe it."

"I couldn't, either," he said. "I knew I had a good team, but I wasn't sure they would be good _enough_. Hardly anyone showed up for the try-outs; I practically had to enrol Theo by force."

"I'm not sure I believe that."

She had spoken with Theo a little bit, just a few words exchanged while going from one class to another. Her overall impression was that Theo was pliable and amicable. He was easy to talk to in a normal, easygoing way, the kind of person she might have been friends with in another life. It may have just been a carefully constructed Slytherin façade, but she found it difficult to believe he would resist anyone in any way.

"It's true, though. He and Pansy hardly ever play... But they did well. We did well."

"Very well," she agreed. "Winning made you happy, right?"

He smiled softly; she thought she had never seen him look this approachable. His eyes seemed to lose their hardness, and his expression relaxed.

"Yes," he said. "But not the happiness I think you mean."

"Everyone has their own kind of happiness," she had said, looking at him, wishing he could be like this more often.

Since then, they had met at least twice a week at the pitch. She hadn't seen that soft, soft look again, but she spent her time trying to spark it. She didn't even have him practice the spell until their fifth session. She felt he was a more delicate case than anyone in the DA. It was more about getting him to think about happy things than working on wandwork or focus. They sat in the grass and talked, and talked, and talked. She suggested things he immediately rejected. She had tried, once, to call up a childhood memory of his, but he hadn't lied. Such an expression came over him that she knew his previous memories would be no good. The Dementors _had _ruined them. So instead she worked on loosening his state of mind, on getting him more relaxed. Because he was tense, so tense.

Today, their session was just after his Quidditch practice, and he arrived mellow and satisfied, relaxed and comfortable, his eyes alert but not wary. She seized on the opportunity and, for the first time, had him take his wand out almost immediately. At once she realised it wouldn't work; as soon as his fingers closed around the wand his entire body stiffened. He was trying too hard to focus, too certain he would fail. Before he even started the incantation, she laid a hand on his arm.

"That's not it," she said. "Relax, Draco. You'll never do it like this."

Something in his eyes hardened, and she recognised the warning sign. Sometimes, he got so frustrated he snapped. She knew better than to prolong those sessions. But he had arrived in such an ideal state... the state she'd been trying to have him reach since they'd started.

"You were fine just a second ago," she said. "Don't try so hard. Don't think about it. It's your wand, Draco – you're used to it. Hold it like you normally would."

His arm lowered just a little and bent at the elbow. She felt his muscles loosen, just a little, beneath her hand.

"That's it," she said. "Do you have a memory ready?"

"Yes," he said, very softly.

"Then try."

Instantly he stiffened again, his entire body tense as he said, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Nothing happened.

"I know you can do it," she said quietly. "Try again."

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he said again, with the same result.

"Try thinking of something else," she coaxed him. "A happier memory. Something that makes you smile. Something that makes you feel warm inside. Something happy," she said again, her voice soft.

She felt his body relax, his breathing deepen. Her touch seemed to calm him.

"Now," she said.

He raised his wand. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A huge, silver animal erupted from the tip of his wand and leapt forward powerfully. It started making its way through the air easily, leaping around the pitch. As it turned around, they caught a glimpse of sharp talons and a tail before it vanished.

Draco stared after it, grinning, and she felt an answering smile spread across her own face.

"You did it," she said. "I _knew_ you could."

"I – I didn't think..."

"It was a dragon," Hermione said admiringly. "He's beautiful." Hesitantly, as though it were a personal question: "What was your memory about?"

"Nothing," he said. "I wasn't thinking at all when I cast it. I didn't expect it to work."

"Then you must have been happy – just now."

He seemed to think about it.

"I _am_ happy," he said quietly. "Like you said I would be."

"New memories," Hermione agreed. She spun him around to face her and took both his hands in hers. His face radiated joy. "You _did_ it, Draco."

It happened naturally. His eyes met hers, sparkling and laughing. They were already so close, their faces almost touching. He drew her even closer and before she could realise what he was doing, he leaned his head down and gently touched his lips to hers, capturing them in a kiss.. She stiffened with surprise and almost pushed away, but he seemed to anticipate it and drew back slightly, no more than half an inch. She thought she heard him let out the slightest of sighs. One of his hands reached up to stroke her cheek gently, and then he lowered his mouth to hers again.

She closed her eyes and gave in to the kiss, and time stopped around her and the world focused on the sensations she was experiencing.

He was good at this, giving and taking at the same time, granting her full access to his surprisingly pliant mouth. As soon as he realised she wasn't pulling back, he deepened the kiss, drawing her ever closer until they were plastered against each other, daring to become more insisting with his kisses. His hands remained around her waist, but hers somehow trailed up his back and around his neck and then tangled into his hair, pulling him closer, closer, closer...

Then Draco pulled away, his breathing ragged, and the heated coil in her stomach slowly receded. He stared at her, his eyes dark and unreadable, searching her face for something.

"Well," he said.

She felt her smile, unable to keep it from spreading across her face as she looked up at him. Happiness? She had thought she knew what it was, had thought she was teaching Draco to be happy. Maybe he was the one teaching _her_.

She was the one who leaned in for another kiss.

He was the one who pulled back, shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he said.

She felt as though she'd just been slapped, felt the grin slide off her face.

"We can't," he said. His tone was flat, broking no argument. "And you know it."

"Then why did you do it?" she asked, feeling something like anger rise inside her. "Why would you do something you aren't willing to take responsibility for?"

"Oh, I'll take responsibility for it," he said, and the heat in his eyes confirmed his words. "But we can't."

Something inside her broke – her pride, maybe. She knew he was right. She had been foolish to think, even for a second, that they were possible, based on a single kiss. He must have seen the realisation in her eyes, because he reached out and lightly traced her jawline with a finger.

She shivered.

"I _am_ sorry, you know. And I'd do it again if I thought there was any chance of our working this out. But I do have good news."

"Oh really?"

He grinned at her. "Now I'll always have a memory to call up if I ever need to cast a Patronus."

It took her a moment to understand the implication.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to everyone who stuck around just for this scene. :p No, the fic is not over and neither are the Dramione scenes, but this is pretty much the climax of their relationship in my mind. It was just so sweet. No, I'm not flattering myself. I didn't mean <strong>_**good**_** sweetness. I meant heavy, almost sickening sweetness. I almost gagged at the fluff as I was writing it.**

** Tell me I pulled it off adequately? **

** Next chapter is Lee.**


	42. Kiss Me Again

**Chapter 43**

**Kiss Me Again**

**7th March, 1998**

* * *

><p>The library was still their sanctuary, she thought. How odd. Sunshine through a window, a stack of books, and two chairs sufficed to make them happy. Or had sufficed, for a long time. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't loved books; when had Draco turned to them for solace? Was it only this year, when he could find no other place to be alone?<p>

Now, though, reading seemed overrated when _he_ was sitting across from her. She would lean on one hand, her elbow supported by the table, watching him in silence. As he read, his grey eyes travelled from left to right, and his eyelids lowered every now and then in a quick blink, and for a moment long, golden eyelashes would touch pale skin before his eyes opened wide again. She liked his way of reading; concentrated, almost determined, as though whatever he was reading was fascinating. He knew she watched him, had to know, because she made no attempt to hide it. He had said nothing about it, had avoided the subject altogether. She took it as permission to stare, so she did. It didn't seem to bother him; at least, he was able to read under her gaze.

Today she _did_ have a book and was actually reading it: _Jane Eyre_. And Draco wasn't reading, he was writing an essay, and his essaying expression was not nearly as interesting as his reading expression, so she didn't stare. She read. After a few minutes, she found she was reading the same line over and over again and couldn't shake an uncomfortable feeling. She raised her eyes to find Draco's, fixed on hers.

"What?" she asked.

He smiled. "It isn't such a pleasant feeling, is it?"

"What isn't?" she said, puzzled.

"Being stared at while you read."

She felt her face heat up, and he laughed.

"Just so you know," he said, not looking the least bit annoyed.

There had been no awkwardness, no uncomfortable silences since the kiss. Conversation glided easily over the subject, never once threatening to touch it, as though it had simply never happened. Draco had seemed perfectly content to keep on going as they had been, talking, reading, studying and brewing potions together. They had even met at the Quidditch pitch the day before, to practice his Patronus one last time; he had excelled. She had felt such a burst of pride and satisfaction that she felt she had to be content, too, if Draco was. Until now, what he had felt, she had been able to understand and, in a way, make the feeling hers – his regrets, his bitterness, his rare joys. This quiet contentedness, though, she could not understand; she knew he was gladder than she was to have mastered the Patronus, but that didn't account for his ease, his calm. She had never seen him this relaxed, whereas she herself had never been this tense around him.

He noticed nothing, or pretended not to notice. She couldn't tell, because she couldn't read him as he sometimes seemed to read her. She could only guess in him what he allowed her to guess, and since then he allowed her nothing except this confusing, irritating _calm_.

"What happened?" she asked suddenly.

"I don't know," he said. "What did?"

"I meant, what happened to _you_? You're... different."

"I am," he acknowledged. "The memories of Azkaban I had – I can deal with them now. I used to ignore them, but now I simply don't care anymore, and they float around in my head and can't hurt me no matter how hard they try. I'm simply not afraid any longer."

"Oh," she said. She had no idea his fears went so deep, no idea that curing him of his bad memories would have such an effect. Her heart softened. "I'm glad."

"You should be," he said. "It's thanks to you."

The smile he gave her was true, and her heart leapt. There was something very different about Draco in all he did, all he thought, all he felt. She had never felt so close to someone else.

"Salazar, I'm _tired_," Draco said suddenly, throwing his quill to the side and stretching. "To hell with essays."

"You should finish it today," she said gently. "So you won't have to do it tomorrow."

To her fourteen-year-old self, Viktor had seemed to be her very soul, reflected back to her as though by a mirror: clever, attentive, sensitive beneath his gruff Bulgarian exterior; but whatever they might have had had been cut short by real-world differences: her age, his social standing, the Tournament. He still wrote to her, but only every few weeks.

"If you let me copy off you, this would go so much faster," Draco said, massaging his right wrist with his other hand. "Oh, forget it. I'm getting a cramp from writing too much."

"That's from Quidditch practice when you sprained your wrist catching the Snitch."

Then there was Ron, whose love for her had been proven and broken in a single battle. They had had a glimpse of what being together could be like – and then the dream had shattered. She was too sensible, too cowardly to try. He had been too caught up in his grief to notice.

"You're probably right."

"Won't you let Madam Pomfrey look at it?"

"There's no need," he said, not for the first time. "I learnt how to cure this kind of thing growing up. Injuries are more common than air where I come from. It'll be fine."

"It's getting bluer," she observed. "And if you can't write –"

"I can write," he said, picking his quill up again and dipping it in the inkwell. "I just don't want to. Leave it, Hermione. Madam Pomfrey can't stand me anyway."

Well, he was probably right about that. Few people could "stand" Draco nowadays, fewer than before, even. But they were close-minded, she reflected. How could they fail to see how changed he was? Right off the bat, her curiosity had overtaken her enmity for him. They had talked. They had come to a series of understandings, even though there were still so many things they hadn't talked about, would never talk about, not directly. Things from the past which shouldn't be brought up; the bruises on her arm, for example.

"She's a good nurse and a good person."

"I know that," he said, scratching a few additional words to his parchment. "Only three inches to go... I know," he said again, looking up at her. "That's why I won't go to see her."

There was something bitter in his grey eyes, and that more than anything was what made Hermione relent. She didn't want to press him too much, to force him into irritation when he could be this calm. She knew his bitterness and knew it was better avoided; she hadn't seen it in him since his first successful Patronus four days ago. Since the kiss.

There had been something strangely alluring about that kiss – something bittersweet. She had kissed back because she wanted to, but also because she instinctively knew that pushing him away would have broken him – that it was the one thing she couldn't do to him.

But he was the one who had pulled back and who didn't seem to care.

"Hermione," he said, not looking away from her; his expression softened and the bitterness faded. "Knut for your thoughts."

"I was thinking," she said slowly, "that I would give anything to have you always happy, never bitter."

"Would you?" he asked, his voice oddly quiet and an intensity she'd never seen in him burning in his eyes.

"I would."

"How odd."

"How odd?" she repeated.

"I don't think I deserve to be eternally happy," he said. "And I think it must be dull to be always happy, because after a while, happiness would become normal. And then it wouldn't be happiness anymore."

"You're right," she agreed. "I wasn't thinking sense."

"Still, it was a nice thought," he said musingly. "If I could hold on to this feeling forever, I would probably try to."

"What are you feeling?" she asked. "Is it just not fear, or is is – freedom, or giddiness, or what?"

He looked thoughtful. "It's calm," he said finally.

"How can you be _calm_?" she asked, suddenly irritated; he _was_ calm. Calm!

"I don't know," he said. "I just am. I don't think I've ever felt anything like this before. I'm happy, but not in an ecstatic way. Just... calm." He set his quill down again and sighed. "We need to talk, don't we?"

"It feels like we always do," she said, fiddling with the cover of _Jane Eyre_.

"Maybe we should always be talking, then. Never stop." He smiled. "I wonder what you would be like if you were chatty."

"Irritating, I think."

"Probably," he agreed. "It's better to spend more time thinking than talking. But between us, that doesn't seem to work, does it?"

"Because you always know what I'm thinking," she said. "And I don't."

"You don't know what you're thinking, or what I'm thinking?"

"Both. Neither." She paused. "Which is grammatically correct?"

"I have no idea," he said. "I can't _always_ tell what you're thinking. But right now, I can. You know I'm thinking about it, too, don't you?"

"I don't know anything. I haven't been able to read you correctly since I kissed you."

"Well, that was blunt."

She averted her eyes.

"But you've got it wrong," he said airily. "If I remember it correctly, it happened the other way around. _I_ kissed _you_."

"I kissed back," she said without thinking.

"Yes. You did."

"Don't you want to know why?"

He smiled. How could he smile as though nothing had happened, as though it had all been a joke?

"I'm irresistible."

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. It wasn't true and they both knew it. She was sure plenty of women – definitely all the girls at Hogwarts – would be more than capable of resisting Draco Malfoy. There was no need to remind them both of that fact. What mattered was that it was true for her.

"It's not that I don't want to know," he said, more seriously. "It's just that... it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Is that what you think?"

"It is what it is," he said. "And neither of us can help it."

"Kiss me again," she said suddenly.

He looked at her. "What?"

"Please," she said, unable to explain herself.

She needed to feel it again, feel his warm breath mingling with hers, feel his arms wrapped tightly around her, feel the soft pressure of his lips on hers. Feel the fire engulf her once more, feel him pull back, leaving her wanting for more. She needed to figure out what it was exactly she had felt.

And when he didn't move, looking undecided, she looped her arms around his neck and dragged him forward into a second kiss, crashing his lips down to hers.

He was the one who froze this time, but it was as temporary as her own surprise had been moments earlier. Within seconds he was kissing back in an entirely different manner than their first kiss. These were hungry, furious kisses, teeth clashing, his lips tugging and pulling relentlessly, his hands running up her sides and across her back as though he'd never get tired of touching her. They lasted longer as well, long enough for her to catch the faintest aroma of bitter chocolate on his breath and, oh gods, his tongue.

It could have gone on for hours if Draco hadn't at last pulled back, his breathing uneven.

"Salazar," he said, "I take it back. You're the one who's irresistible."

And he didn't back out of her embrace. He didn't let go of her. It wasn't an ideal position, leaning over the table and holding on to each other – she was sure they'd spilt his inkwell –, but there was something so _warm_ about his touch that it just felt _right_.

"Are you okay?" he added after a moment.

For a second, she considered not replying. Because she really didn't know the answer to that question. _Was_ she okay? She had never felt this way before. Good or bad? Good, probably, if the the way her lips tingled was any indication. If the heat in her stomach and the warm flush on her face were any indication.

"Hermione?"

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "Better than fine."

"Right," he said, letting her go and leaning back again. "This doesn't change anything. It still doesn't matter."

"I don't understand."

"Well," he said slowly. "Suppose it was to happen again. And again, and again. It would have to stop anyway, someday. Our... _friendship_ is still a secret. This wouldn't survive in daylight."

"And if I don't care?"

"_I_ care," he said shortly, and something flashed in his eyes.

He stood up abruptly and started to throw his things into his back – quill, inkwell, parchment, books. She watched him in silence, and he left without a word. Where was he going? The Quidditch pitch? It was chilly out; sunny but cold nevertheless.

She took out the Marauder's Map, spotted the library, and followed with her eyes the dot which was moving rapidly away from it: _Draco Malfoy_. _"I won't need it anymore. Not this year," _Harry had said._ "Take it, Hermione, please. You never know... it's been useful to us these past years."_ That had been true enough, and she had accepted the Map. She wondered whether Harry would agree with her use of it.

The dot disappeared.

LINEBREAK

She found him; he should have know she would. She was better at reading him than she thought; she often guessed right without realising it. He shouldn't be surprised anymore, but this was something new. The Room of Requirement was _his_ room; he despised it, yes, but he knew it better than anyone else.

When the door opened, he started, turned around very quickly to face it, but it was only – only! – Hermione. She paused for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the dim light inside, flicking back and forth until she saw him. Then she entered and closed the door behind her.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I guessed."

"How did you get in?"

She smiled, a calm smile which looked odd with the flickering shadows the fire threw across her face. "You, of all people, should know. You know the Room better than I do."

"_Why_ did you come?"

"If the mountain won't come to Mohammed..." she said enigmatically.

"_What?_"

"It's a Muggle saying. It means that sometimes you have to go after the things you want. You left, so I came to you. Here."

She looked around. The room he had asked for was plain, with wooden planks lining the floor and unpainted concrete walls. A fireplace stood in a corner; its very small fire was the only source of light in the room. It gave off no heat, because Draco despised all that burnt since Crabbe's Fiendfyre. There was an armchair near it; he knew from experience that it was comfortable, but he had been standing when she came in.

"This is... your sanctuary?"

"My what?"

"Your sanctuary," she repeated. "You came here a lot, before, didn't you? Did it look like this in sixth year? Where did you put the Vanishing Wardrobe?"

"Hermione," he said warningly.

"You said you hated this place," she said. "Why did you come back?"

He shrugged. "I thought, if there was one place where I could be alone, this would be it. Obviously I thought wrong."

"Crabbe died here," she said quietly. She was still smiling, but it was a fixed, cool smile. "Doesn't it bother you?"

She was eyeing the fire with distaste; he felt a surge of sympathy for her.

"Those memories haunted me for weeks when I was in Azkaban. I don't want to spend my life reliving them. What's done is in the past – you're the one who taught me that."

Her smile became warmer. "You're right. I'm glad you realise that."

He realised something else. "What happened last time is also in the past, right?"

The smile faltered. "It is. Have you moved on, then?"

"We should try to forget it."

She looked away, then back at him. He heard her swallow, and her next words were very quiet.

"And if I don't want to forget?"

He cut his eyes to her.

She took a tentative step forward. And another, sidling up to him until she was almost, but not quite, touching him. In the flickering light, her eyes shone like gold.

"I _don't_ want to forget," she repeated clearly.

She tilted her head back, and their lips touched. And even though he knew it was madness – knew this couldn't and wouldn't lead anywhere good –, he let it happen. And he deepened the kiss, losing himself in a sea of warmth. Emotion. Tenderness.

Happiness.

* * *

><p><strong>Some more Dramione sweetness. I couldn't resist it.<br>**


	43. Criminal Error

**Chapter 43**

**Criminal Error**

**14th March, 1998**

* * *

><p>They had finally cornered him. He could scarcely believe it. Months of efforts, months of despair, months of filling in that <em>stupid<em> casebook, and now, finally, here he was, facing off with Rookwood. It had happened completely by chance. The casebook had actually ended up being completely useless, but he wasn't thinking about that now. It didn't matter, what mattered was the _result_. Every little scribble, every curse learnt, every bead of sweat – it had all been worth it, more than worth it, if this was how it was going to end. If they caught him, he would hand in his resignation letter tomorrow and that would be the end of it. He would have succeeded. He would have avenged Fred.

His hand shook around his wand, and Savage caught the movement. He shot the trainee a sharp glance that said, _Lee, _c_ollect yourself. You can do this._ But it wasn't fear that had Lee shaking. He wasn't _afraid_. He had been waiting for so long that he _couldn't_ be afraid. He knew he was ready. It wasn't fear, it was anticipation. If he had been a dog on Savage's leash, that sharp glance would have been a tug on the leash to try to hold him back, and it wouldn't have worked. The leash would have snapped.

"Well, well, well," Rookwood said, breaking the heavy silence that had settled when he caught sight of the three Aurors; Lee tensed at the sound of his voice. "What have we here?"

"Augustus Rookwood," Savage said, "We are a team of Aurors dispatched by the Ministry to arrest you. Will you follow in peace?"

This was simple procedure, ensuring the legality of the fight that was about to follow. They couldn't attack first, not unless Rookwood made it clear he wasn't going to give himself up.

"In peace, Auror?" Rookwood asked. "Why, certainly. I'm simply dying to go to Azkaban. You know, I've been on the run for so long simply to turn myself in when three scrawny –" his lip curled – "_Aurors_ ask me to. Without even saying please, no less."

"_Stupefy!_" Harry cried.

Rookwood dodged the spell and turned to stare at Harry. "_Potter_? It _is_ you, isn't it? It's _you_ –" and he non-verbally shot a jet of violet light at Harry, who barely had time to Shield himself. "_Petrificus Totalus!_" and then Savage was down, unable to move.

"Damn," Harry said, casting a Shield over Savage and moving so that Rookwood was between him and Lee.

He shot a glance at his partner over Rookwood's shoulder, a glance which meant, _Distract him._ He didn't need to ask twice; Lee was more than willing for an opportunity to talk.

"I have waited," he said, searching the ex-Death Eater's face, "for so long."

"I'm honoured," Rookwood sneered. "Seems like I have a fan. Be serious, kid. You're just a little boy trying to play hero... Why are you even doing this job?"

"You _killed_ my best friend," he snarled. "You murdered my father _savagely_ –"

"Which one was that?" Rookwood asked tauntingly. "You're not exactly narrowing it down."

He kept looking back and forth over his shoulder at Harry. Whenever he tried to step to the side to get out from between them, they followed. But it was a stalemate; if either of them tried anything, Rookwood would have time to attack the other. Savage was down... Savage, the senior Auror, would know what to do in a situation like this. But Lee and Harry were duellists, not field experts. They could have taken Rookwood down in a fair fight, but in real life, they were harmless.

Lee felt his fury build up as he understood this. _No._ He had _not_ worked so hard for _months_ to end up as _weak_ as he had been during the Battle – too weak to help Fred. He _would not_ lose.

_Distract him, Lee._

"Scared yet, are you, Rookwood?" he taunted. "Look at you, harmless and hopeless. You're a goner, you worthless murderer. You're caught. You might as well hand yourself in and maybe you'll get off light. Maybe you'll only get, what, eighty years in Azkaban?" Lee continued. "That's nothing for a guy like you, right? If you're lucky you'll be dead before they decide to allow the Dementors back in."

"Look at _you_, Mister Auror," Rookwood said. "I didn't think they hired – hey!"

Rookwood's eyes widened and he let loose a volley of swear words as his wand flew out of his hand, wrenched away by the force of Harry's non-verbal _Expelliarmus_. It was one of his favourite spells, the one he was most at ease with and the first one he had mastered non-verbal casting of.

"Didn't think they hired _what_, exactly?" Lee asked.

"Useless little shits like you," Rookwood spat. "Worthless – piece – of – shit."

"You're unarmed," Lee said. "Talk now, or we can take you in the hard way."

"Lee," Harry said warningly. "Lee, get on with it."

He was right. There was no need to have Rookwood talk. The proper procedure was to Stun him and bring him to Azkaban, or cuff him and bring him to Azkaban. But Lee wasn't a proper Auror.

"Damn you, Rookwood," Lee said, ignoring his friend and keeping his gaze on Rookwood. "Why did you _do_ it?"

"If you're expecting remorse," Rookwood said, "then go find someone else."

He spun on his heel, and suddenly Lee knew that, even though they had taken his wand and the risks of Splinching himself were high, he was going to try to Disapparate. Harry cried "No!" and then an incantation Lee didn't catch, but for once, Lee's reflexes were faster.

Rookwood fell to his knees on the spot and screamed out in pain, his body convulsing under the non-verbal Cruciatus. It was less potent than a verbal curse would have been, but seemed to do the job all right. Lee watched him impassively, feeling a sort of sick vengeful feeling rise in him for all of five seconds, which was all it took for Savage to finally free himself of the Full Body-Bind. Lee heard a cry of "_Stupefy!_" aimed at Rookwood and had the satisfaction of seeing his enemy crumple to the ground and lie still. Then Savage screamed out another incantation, something Lee didn't recognise, and then a white-hot, searing pain filled him, and then he lost consciousness.

* * *

><p>He woke up at the Ministry, in the Aurors' lounge, lying on one of the sofas. Had this all been a dream? He struggled to push himself into an upright position, feeling somewhat groggy, and noticed that Harry was sitting on another sofa, and Kingsley on yet another.<p>

"Minister..." he said weakly. And then. "Rookwood!"

"He is being held in Azkaban, awaiting judgement," Kingsley said calmly. "That is not why I am here."

Of course not. Lee knew why the Minister was here – he had used the Cruciatus Curse. An Unforgivable. There were two witnesses, one of whom was _Harry Potter_ and the other of whom was a senior Auror. By all rights he should already be in Azkaban, imprisoned for life.

"I know why you're here," Lee said stiffly. "I don't know why _I_'m here, though. I expected to find myself in Azkaban."

"Not without a trial," Kingsley said. "The Ministry looks after its own, Lee. You're one of our Aurors, and a good one at that."

That was a lie. Lee was the worst Auror he'd ever met. He got too involved in the cases he was given, talked to the family and friends of the victim until he hated the criminal he was chasing so much he wanted to kill him. He always caught his prize, always turned him over to the Ministry, and he did it quickly, but he wasn't a good Auror.

"An investigation is unnecessary," Kingsley went on. "There are witnesses, and your wand would surely reveal to us the last spell you used if we asked it to."

Lee stiffened and instinctively reached up his sleeve. His wand – he still had his wand. Was Kingsley completely crazy?

"… circumstances." Lee snapped back to attention and realised he'd missed out on a part of Kingsley's explanation. "During the wars, Aurors were given the right to use the Unforgivable Curses against Death Eaters. Harry himself –" he nodded at the Saviour "– used the Cruciatus on more than one occasion, and he wasn't an Auror then. You were chasing a Death Eater, so your use of an Unforgivable may have been warranted. Of course," he added, "the fact that you chose the Cruciatus Curse makes this a delicate matter. You could have used a Stunning Spell to neutralise Rookwood whom, Savage tells me, you had already cornered and disarmed . The Killing Curse would have guaranteed you a five-star cell in Azkaban for at least fifteen years. But the Cruciatus... The Cruciatus is difficult to deal with. Inflicting pain. _Torturing_ someone. Why would you, an Auror, do that?" He paused. "_How_ did you do it? The Cruciatus requires the _desire_ to inflict pain... just for the sake of causing pain. I find it worrying that one of my Aurors was capable of casting the curse."

"The reason I became an Auror," Lee said quietly, "was to hunt down the people who had killed my friends and classmates. The reason I chose Rookwood was because he killed one of my best friends. And I used the curse because it was the first thing to come to mind when I faced him. I didn't just want revenge; I didn't just want him to pay for what he'd done. I wanted him to know what pain was."

Kingsley was silent. Then he stood up and swiftly left the room, Harry following right behind him. But Lee knew where he was and where the pair was likely to go; the Head Auror's office was just beside the Auror's lounge. He didn't think before casting the spell which would allow him to eavesdrop on their conversation; why would he, anyway? He was already as deeply in trouble as he could ever get. He had nothing to lose anymore.

After a second, Kingsley's voice rose from the other room, sounding bemused. "Savage cursed him," it said. "He saw Lee cast an Unforgivable and how did he react? He _cursed_ him. The man has _years_ of career behind him. It isn't like him to lose control."

"There were unlikely circumstances," the Head's voice said.

"True," Kingsley said, his voice low, and despite the magic Lee had to strain to hear his next words, which were addressed to Harry. "But you _all_ have reason to hate the Death Eaters. You've all faced them down at least once, you've all lost someone to them. I didn't think Lee was so hateful – I didn't draw the line that linked him to Fred Weasley and Rookwood."

"It isn't your fault," Harry said. "None of us knew."

Lee was surprised at the lie, but Harry was saving his own neck with it.

"The curse," Kingsley said again. "It complicates everything. You've made a right mess of this situation... But if you play your cards right, Harry, you may yet save your friend."

Harry didn't hesitate. "How?"

Lee stiffened. He had cast an _Unforgivable_. Could Kingsley seriously be looking for a way for Lee to avoid punishment? Why was Harry so willing to go along with it?

"Savage will hate this," Kingsley said. "But the curse he used was outlawed only three months ago. By me. His testimony wouldn't hold up in court. He'd be exposing himself to a sentence as well. He has enough honour that he'd go through with it anyway, but I could make him back down."

"And Lee would get off – just like that?"

"No, of course not."

Kingsley then said something that Lee didn't hear – and he didn't quite catch the Head's reply, either. He managed to make out the words "improbable," "lucky," and "circumstances." He did hear the click of a door locking, though, and knew the three had left the room.

Lee slumped down on the sofa, rocked his head in his hands, and started crying.

* * *

><p><strong> Bound to happen... This I knew was going to happen when I started the story. I had a hard time convincing myself to write it down, but I did it, and I like it. How do you feel?<strong>


	44. Remember

**Chapter Forty-Four**

**Remember **

**1st April, 1999**

* * *

><p>It was his birthday today.<p>

When did birthdays usually stop being something you looked forward to? He knew people who made a face whenever that time of year came around, bur he had never expected to one day become one of them. He had thought that was something for old, irate people, not for twenty-year-old men. He had thought many things back when he was still happy.

He was already a year older than Fred would ever be, a whole bloody _year_ older than him. Would he always feel like this? Would every birthday take him one more step away from his brother, his twin? Would he always feel like an old man? Would he always be this messed up?

_Help me. Merlin, Fred – help me._

There was a knock at the door, so sharp and insistent that he heard it from the upper floor, and he tilted his head back and groaned. If it was someone here to say "Happy birthday," he _was not_ about to open the door.

Another knock. He counted on his fingers how many people he knew who might come. Not his parents, not even on his birthday, not since he'd made his mum burst into tears last time she'd come. Not anyone in his family, really, except maybe Percy who was actually turning out to be a pretty decent bloke. But Percy didn't bother with knocking anymore. Then there was Lee, who probably didn't know what a birthday was anymore. No, it couldn't be Lee. He came up with three names: Katie, Alicia, and Angelina. It could be any of the three; he didn't think he was closer to one than the other. He saw Angelina more often, but only because Katie was busy with Lee, Alicia was busy with Merry, and Angelina no longer had Fred to be busy with. They'd all been buddies back at Hogwarts, and team-mates, but it had never really gone beyond that. It was only after Hogwarts that they had become true friends, through and through. It had been thanks to Angelina and Fred, really.

_Fred..._

A third knock, followed by three more in rapid succession. Whoever it was, she was getting impatient. He didn't want to answer. Did he want to see their faces? Katie, Alicia, Angelina. Katie was so happy, so free of guilt and suffering that she only made his own pain sharper by contrast. Alicia was the opposite and made him feel free to wallow in his despair, which wasn't that much better, really. And Angelina reminded him too much of _Fred_.

"George Weasley!" a voice yelled; the window was open and he could make out every word distinctly. "If you don't open up in twenty seconds I'll break the door down!"

That was Angelina for sure. He couldn't help but smile a little as he pushed his chair back and made his way down the stairs. He wrenched the door open; Angelina looked surprised. She looked strange, too. It took him a moment to pinpoint it exactly, but she was _dressed up_. Her braids were sleek and ordered, she had a little eye shadow on, and she was wearing a dress, all unusual things for Angelina. She looked... girlish, he decided as he stared at her. Fred would have hated it.

_He_ thought she looked pretty good.

She said, "Hi."

"Hi," he said back.

He thought if she said Happy "birthday" he would slam the door back in her face. She didn't, though. Instead she brushed past him into the shop, or what used to be the shop, and he caught a whiff of a flowery scent that had to be perfume except Angelina didn't _wear_ perfume. He closed the door behind her, frowning.

"Still no light down here?" she said, looking around. "_Lumos_."

The tip of her wand lit up.

"Still no light down here," he confirmed. "What's the point?"

"The _point_," she said as she nearly tripped over a box, "is that darkness creeps me out."

"Since when are you scared of the dark?"

"Since it put my life in danger," she snapped. "I nearly broke my ankle."

He smiled again, but she didn't see it. She didn't see it because they had reached the top of the stairs, and she was looking around in dismay at the mess that was the kitchen area, then at the empty table. Was it time for supper already? he wondered.

"Where's Lee?" she asked.

"At work."

"It's past nine!"

"He has flexible hours."

She pursed her lips. "Then he should make sure to be here on time."

"On time for what? He doesn't have anything to come home to."

"He doesn't have anything to come home _from_, either," she said bitingly. "He's only a trainee Auror in name now, as everyone knows... since that business with Rookwood. Besides," she added, almost as an afterthought, "he has you."

"I'm not his family."

She seemed on the verge of retorting, but to his surprise, she held it in and only said, "Sit down. At the _table_. You need a proper meal."

Twenty minutes later, after having gone through all of his cupboards, Angelina set a plate of steaming roast beef and butter beans down in front of him. The smell of it made George's stomach turn. He could barely stand the half-cold, five-second meals Lee had been feeding him. How was he supposed to eat _this_?

But Angelina was watching him, and he plunged his fork in and took a mouthful.

"I suppose now wouldn't be the right time to mention I don't particularly like butter beans."

Fred had loved them.

"Probably not," she agreed.

"Or that they've been sitting in that cupboard for months."

Angelina smiled like he'd just made a joke and took a bite. "Have you ever thought about reopening the shop?" she said, her tone almost casual.

"Yes."

"And?" she prompted him.

He shrugged.

"It's a brilliant idea," she pressed. "Everyone loved it. I'd like to see it opened again."

"It's not about you," he snapped, which was usually enough to make Lee – or anyone, really – back down.

A flash of hurt crossed Angelina's face, but her voice was even when she replied.

"I know," she said calmly. "But Fred would want it open, too. The shop was his dream, George. You know how he felt about it."

It was true. Ironically enough, their joke shop had been the one thing Fred had ever been completely serious about. He had thought everything out in advance, planned out spending, sales, and employee salaries in charts that George hadn't looked at since... since...

"So what are you all dressed up for?" he asked, changing the subject.

He wished he could just be silent, but he knew she wouldn't let him. Every time she came around, she kept him talking. He had liked it at first, because hearing the sound of his own voice made him think part of him was still sane. Sometimes, though, it just annoyed him, because she often wanted to talk about subjects he didn't even want to _think_ about.

She looked at him. "You know why."

His throat went dry. "You –"

"Happy birthday, George," she said, and he wished he _had_ slammed the door in her face.

Last year, their birthday had been one month and one day before the Battle. They had all been tense and weary and worried then, but it had been so easy to let go of all that for one day and have fun on their birthday. Angelina had been all prettied up then, too, and so had Katie and Alicia. Lee had been his old self, flirting blatantly with Angelina in that Lee way of his that couldn't annoy even _Fred_, who was her _boyfriend_ for Merlin's sake. They had all ended up with at least one drink too many – except for Ange, who rarely drank –, and Lee had been downright smashed, and they had all crashed over at the flat above the shop to recover. They had woken up with terrible hangovers.

George felt like he had a perpetual hangover nowadays. His head was always ringing and he always felt like throwing up.

"You're twenty-one now," Angelina said, as though he hadn't heard her the first time.

"I _know_," he said. "Ange, please shut up."

He thought she would lose her temper and yell, or maybe punch him, because Ange was like that. That was why Fred had liked her: she was tough. But she surprised him. She just looked at him silently for a few seconds before speaking, her voice very soft.

"I miss him, too, you know," she said.

"I can't believe he's gone."

"But he isn't, George," she said. "He's dead, but he isn't gone. He's still right _here_." She tapped her chest above where her heart was with two fingers. "And he speaks to us. I hear him. Right now, he's telling me..." She cocked her head as though listening to someone. "He's telling me to be strong. And to take care of you."

George shook his head. "Don't, Ange, please. I'd feel it if he were – still here. It's painful enough as it is. He's dead –"

"Yes! Yes, he is!" Angelina said fiercely. "He's dead. But he's still here, with us. You can't be sad! You're not supposed to be sad. You can miss having him by your side, but you can't go on thinking he's – gone forever. He isn't. But he must be worried sick about you!"

"Stop saying that! Stop acting like you know what he would think. You didn't know him! You didn't know him like I did!"

Again, he intended to hurt her with his words. She didn't even flinch.

"Maybe I never knew him as well as you did," she said, "but I loved him, and at least I _still_ know him. Whereas you've just been ignoring him. You're a damn coward, George Weasley, and you don't even deserve to be able to call Fred your brother. Do you realise what you're doing? You're trying to _forget_ him."

He stared at her, his anger making him speechless. How _could_ she?

"You can't let go of your memories," she went on. "You keep wanting to go back in time, but you can't! So you torture yourself with everything you ever said to Fred, and you can't see that he's _still here_. With me. With you. In this very room."

"You mean his memory."

"I mean his spirit. Death isn't only the end of your life, George. It's also the beginning of something else. Fred can see you right now – what do you think he's thinking?"

"Don't bullshit me, Angelina. He can't."

"He can," she said simply. "And one day, he'll let himself in and you'll realise how blind you were. You can't keep shutting him out forever."

George set his fork down and pushed his chair back. "I'm not hungry."

She nodded as though she had been expecting it. "How long has it been since you last ate a proper meal?"

"Not that long," he lied, and tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

She was silent for a long moment. At some point, he heard the scraping of her chair and heard her make his way over to him, then kneel next to him.

"You're only skin and bones," she whispered, her warmth breath tickling his neck. "You should eat more."

She stood up, and her hands found their way to his shoulders. Warm. Massaging.

"Relax."

Her fingers moved gently, alternately pressuring and releasing, hesitantly slipping beneath his collar to knead his skin.

"Relax," she said again, her voice cradling the single word.

"I'm relaxed."

"Fred liked this," she said quietly. "He was very stressed in the last weeks before the battle. He knew something like this could happen, though I don't think he ever thought it could be him. He was so scared of losing someone... of losing _you_... He liked this," she repeated.

She let her words sink in, cautious, before continuing, still in that soft, soft voice."He liked it when I got angry. His favourite colour was red."

He wanted to tell her to stop, but the words stuck in his throat.

"He asked me out as a joke. He loved laughing. He liked being a Beater because it gave him the right to send Bludgers at people. He got a T on his History of Magic O.W.L. He could turn anything into a joke. He always thought Peeves was hilarious." Her hands stilled suddenly on his shoulders. "_That_'s what you need to remember, George. The good things. Fred – Fred would want you to live."

Her hands fell to her sides.

"_I_ want you to live."

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

Her hands were back, lightly tracing his hairline, caressing the back of his head.

"He loved you," George said, his eyes still closed. "You know he did."

He felt more than heard her sharp intake of breath, and felt, too, something wet suddenly splash on his forehead.

"Happy birthday, George."


	45. The Smile of a Ghost

**Chapter 45**

**The Smile of a Ghost**

**11th April, 1998**

* * *

><p>If anyone had asked him, he couldn't have explained it. He couldn't explain anything about her, and above all he couldn't explain what drew him to her like a moth to a light. He couldn't have explained why, that day, he took the long way back to the Slytherin Common room and found himself pushing the door to the second-floor girls' lavatory.<p>

"About _time_," said the familiar voice, laced with both hurt and exasperation. "I was starting to wonder whether you'd died. Mind you, you'll always be welcome to share the toilets with me if you do."

And Moaning Myrtle zipped down from the ceiling until she was floating about a foot above his head, so he had to crane his neck to look at her.

"It's been very boring without you," she said accusingly. "You haven't come here once since the beginning of the year."

"I'm sorry," he said, and was sincere.

Then he doubled over the toilet and retched again. She cocked her head and looked at him strangely, her eyes running up and down his form. Her cool, glassy gaze had once unnerved him, but now it felt pleasant and familiar. Still, her expression was clearly resentful.

"You look better than you did last year," she said finally. "And the year before. I suppose I can forgive you; you must have been having too much of a good time to bother with poor, _dead_ Myrtle."

"I wasn't," he said, feeling he owed her at least the truth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I liked talking with you."

"Well, yes," she said, floating down until she was sitting beside him, legs crossed. "It's always about _talking_ with you. At least when it's not crying. You look like you haven't cried in a while."

He retched again.

"Oh, no. _Must_ you soil up my toilets like this? What is it about this time? Do you have some more people to kill? Or maybe you're worried about your girlfriend again."

She was callous, almost without meaning to. He knew she cared. He had figured that out quickly enough. But something about being a ghost for fifty years made her sometimes insensitive and cold, asking brutal questions and delivering brutal truths.

"Pansy dumped me, actually," he said, "but I wasn't –"

"She did? I didn't think she would."

"Neither did I," he admitted. "I never would have imagined it; but she did, and she was right. Myrtle –"

"I heard about the Battle," she cut in. "Well, I managed to extract some information from a few girls who came in here. But you have to tell me all about it, Draco, _everything_. What was it like? What happened? What did you do? How did – " her nostrils flared – "_he_ die?"

She seemed very interested in knowing the answer to that last question. Her translucent teeth glittered like diamonds when she smiled, a terrible, bloodthirsty smile, and she leaned forward, searching his gaze avidly.

She had never let him forget who had killed her. She had dropped it like a bomb, one day during his first year of coming here regularly, and had drawn it out again and again like a weapon. And yet she had never accused him of being weak, had never seemed to begrudge him the fact that he was serving her murderer.

He had been crying again that day, yes, but it was more like choking (maybe drowning in tears) than actual crying, and he had just sat down on the tiled floor and gone:

_"He knows. Potter knows. I can tell. He knows I'm the one."_

_"The one?"_ Myrtle had asked, because he hadn't told her yet.

_"The one who tried to kill them,"_ Draco had croaked out, and jerked his head up to meet Myrtle's eyes.

He found no accusation in them.

Then he held out his left arm and pushed the sleeve up, revealing the Dark Mark. _"I'm the one, Myrtle."_

Myrtle had said, _"I knew."_ And then:_ "I died when I was fourteen. Do you know who killed me?"_

He eyed her, wondering where she was going. _"No."_

_"I didn't, either,"_ she said. _"Someone – "_ she would never tell him who – _"told me, not so long ago... though of course everything seems long when you're dead... So someone told me,"_ she began again, _"that it was the monster of the Chamber of Secrets that killed me. That Slytherin's heir killed me. That your Dark Lord killed me."_

He had been silent.

_"And now he's using you to kill other people."_

_"One person,"_ he corrected her. _"The others were accidents. And they didn't die."_

_"Innocents."_

_ "He'll kill my parents,"_ he had said simply, and it had been the sentence he took out every time Myrtle brandished her weapon.

"Draco," Myrtle said presently, "_How did he die?_"

"Potter killed him," he answered, swallowing hard to keep himself from retching again. He spoke haltingly, because it was such an effort, but she didn't seem to mind. "The Dark Lord cast the Killing Curse and it bounced right back at him. He's dead, Myrtle, I promise. He'll never be back again."

"He came back once," she said, sounding unsatisfied. "He found a new body. He could do it again."

"He won't."

Hermione had been convinced of it.

"We'll see," Myrtle said. "You can tell me about the Battle later, if you don't want to talk about it now," she added graciously. "How has this year been for you? I wasn't even sure you had come back. I wasn't even sure you were still alive."

"It's been all right," he replied. "Better than the last two."

"Which is why I haven't seen you lately."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"It's all right." She smiled at him, but this time, it wasn't bloodthirsty. It was almost friendly. "I've forgiven you."

He smiled back weakly. It had taken him some time to get used to almost-friendly exchanges with a ghost, to her cutting remarks and fluctuating moods, but now that he was familiar with them, he wouldn't trade them for anything. There was something gratifying about being on almost-friendly terms with someone so difficult to make out.

He knew he would never be able to explain to anyone what they had, but it didn't matter. No one needed to know, anyway. She hadn't betrayed him or his secrets, even though she had every reason to. She had been there for him when no one else had, had been his confidante for details even Theo couldn't be privy to – Theo who had known all along who was behind the attacks –, had watched him cry and had told him stories about her past, her life. Dying, she said, was not the worst fate imaginable. And those words had eradicated his fear of death, and had made things easier to bear, if only a little. Little sentences, little bits of wisdom like that peppered across their conversations had made life liveable for him during his sixth year. So he had come back during his first seventh year, when things were easier but only by a little, had told her about Pansy and Theo and Blaise's knowing eyes and the Carrows, and Longbottom who looked at him like he was dirt on the soles of his shoes, and when and how had Looney Lovegood become such a ferocious duellist? He had spilled out everything that was bothering him, and she had listened patiently, revelled in some details and sympathised with him over others, and he liked that in her, liked how she was true to herself and blunt and honest.

Draco thought about all this as he vomited into the toilet.

* * *

><p>Draco had disappeared.<p>

She hadn't been sure of it at first. She hadn't seen him in the Great Hall at lunch, and it had struck her as odd, but like her, he didn't always show up at meals. It was only after she had spent the entire two hours of Potions class waiting for him to make an appearance that she started worrying. She went to the infirmary first.

"Hermione," Madam Pomfrey said, smiling warmly at her; she hadn't forgotten that Hermione had helped her in the immediate aftermath of the Battle. "Is there something wrong, dear?"

"I'm fine," she replied, scanning the room with her eyes. "Have you seen Draco, by any chance?"

"Draco Malfoy?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "No, of course not."

Hermione didn't stop to think over the words, but she felt a cold fear run through her as she turned and walked away. If something happened to Draco, no one would care. _If something happened..._ She didn't want to think of it. It was foolish, unreasonable. He could have just chosen to skip class... except Draco didn't skip classes. He wanted his school record to be blemish-free, since his past was already more than shadowy enough. _If something happened..._

I _care_, she thought. _I care._

She went to the Slytherin common room next. She already knew where it was, but she had – obviously – never set foot inside. She had asked Draco about it only the previous week.

_"What's it like?"_

_"Cold," _he had said. _"And beautiful."_

_"Do you need a password to get into it?"_

_"Yes,"_ he said. _"Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor were like-minded people, at least at first."_ He had looked into her eyes and smiled. _"Do you want to know the current password?"_

_"You would tell _me_?"_ she had asked incredulously.

_"Why not? It's not like I haven't already betrayed my house ten times over just by being here with you. Besides, I know you would never use it."_

"Parselmouth," she said to the wall in front of her.

It slowly faded before her eyes, and she walked through it and into the passage. The common room was exactly as Draco had described it, however brief he had been. It was grand, with expensive, sober furniture in blacks and dark greens mostly, a touch of silver here and there. And it was cold in every sense of the word; she shivered.

Hermione had never been one to encourage prejudice, but even she had to admit there was a strange, somewhat threatening air to every Slytherin in the room. None of them seemed happy about her presence – understandably, she supposed. There weren't many, and they had almost all frozen when she entered the room. She half-expected one of them to point their wand at her any second now. Pansy Parkinson was scowling at her from a corner of her room. Zabini, who was leaning against a wall, reading, hadn't even bothered to look up when she entered. Theo was watching her, but his expression was unreadable and offered no comfort. A couple of second years stared, then abruptly stood up and left the room. The silence lingered for a few more moments.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Pansy finally asked, the hostility plain in her voice.

Theo's eyes almost imperceptibly flicked to her. Zabini closed his book and listened. They were, Hermione realised with some surprise, they were _deferring_ to her. Aside from being a prefect, Hermione could not imagine what sort of authority the small, narrow-minded Pansy might have over her much taller and more clever house-mates. Whatever it was, it was strong. It wasn't that they feared her, liked her or came to heel at a word from her, the way Crabbe and Goyle had once done with Draco. It was more like they seemed to think she deserved their attention, in a way Hermione did not.

She had made a mistake in coming here. That much was obvious from the disdain in Pansy's eyes and the slight flush that darkened Theo's cheeks. No one wanted her here. Even the one who had more or less invited her in by giving her the password would have a fit if he knew she'd come.

She managed to gather enough saliva from her suddenly dry throat to say, "Theo –"

He moved his eyes to her so suddenly at the sound of his name that it cut her off. The look in his eyes said it all, but she forced herself to continue.

"I'm looking for Draco."

"He isn't here," Zabini said shortly.

"I can see that," she said. "Where is he? Is he in his dormitory?"

"It's none of your business."

"He isn't," Pansy said, looking straight at her. "I haven't seen him at all today. I don't know where he is."

Hermione saw the worry in her eyes and wondered whether they might have more in common than she'd originally thought.

"Thank you," she said. Then, voicing what they were all thinking: "I should go now."

Pansy nodded somewhat curtly, and Zabini retreated back into his book. She caught a glimpse of the title before he folded the paperback cover too far back: _Birds of Patience_. A novel?

She tried the Room of Requirement next, with no success. It was empty. The room filled itself with portraits of Draco when it understood her desire to find him, and she smiled despite herself as she closed the door. Then she tried the library, and after that she ran outside to the Quidditch pitch and back. It was only when she let herself slide down a wall to the floor, exhausted, that she remembered the Marauder's Map. She wasn't yet used to resorting to it frequently; that had been Harry's habit. But she rummaged through her bag, sending a few inkwells to the floor in the process, and drew out the Map.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," she whispered, tapping the Map with her wand.

It was difficult, with the dozens of dots spread across each floor, to find the right one. She skimmed over Gryffindor Tower and most of the classrooms, knowing he had free period now, just like her. Still there were too many names, and it took her a while of squinting at the overlapping dots to finally find one, isolated, that read: _Draco Malfoy_.

She found him in Myrtle's toilet, retching his guts out. Tears were streaming down his face. His pupils were so dilated she could only just make out the ring of grey around terrible, depthless black.

"Oh, Draco," she said, sinking to her knees beside him. "What happened?"

"Fourth-year," Draco said, in between gags. "Little bastard caught me in the back."

Hermione took out her wand. "_Finite Incantatem_."

To her surprise, Draco gave a sick-sounding laugh and shook his head. "Doesn't work. I've already tried – what did you think?"

"Why didn't you go to the Hospital Wing?"

"Madam Pomfrey... can't stand me," he gasped, his shoulders heaving. "Wouldn't want... to impose. It'll... wear off, anyway."

She remembered the nurse's words, now. _"No, of course not."_

"Oh, _Draco_," she said again. Then: "I _care_, you know. I _care_ about what happens to you."

He shook his head again and looked as though he were about to say something, but then he doubled over and gave in to another spasm. She held his too-long hair back from his face as he retched into the sinks, and she held him in her arms afterwards, and at one point she wondered whether Pansy had ever had to do this.

"Sometimes I wonder if you're an angel," he murmured as she stroked his hair back. "Come down to Earth to save my soul."

She laughed slightly. "I wonder what that spell was. You sound delirious to me."

"Yeah," Draco said. "I should probably shut up now." But he didn't. "Why do you even bother to speak to me? What gives you the right to say things like – like that you _forgive_ me? Why, Hermione? Why do –" he gestured vaguely at himself – "_this_? If it's –"

"I swear if you start on pity again, I'll literally tie your tongue into a knot," she warned him. "I've already told you dozens of times it has nothing to do with that. Maybe I'm just human, Draco."

* * *

><p>"<em>This is your sanctuary,"<em> Hermione had said when she had found his Room of Requirement, and he hadn't denied it. He hadn't expected for Hermione to ever break into his true sanctuary, but now she had. Just as she had broken into every other part of his life.


	46. Tears from the Sky

**Considering a full year has passed, I wasn't sure I really wanted to make this chapter a sad one, but it was a special date. Happy just felt wrong.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 46<br>Tears from the Sky**

**2****nd**** May, 1998**

* * *

><p>The water fell from the sky, thick and steady as ropes, mercilessly plummeting down on the amassed wizards. It streamed on the ground in deep, freezing puddles and weaved its way down to the lake. May and torrential rain. The sky itself was crying for the lives that had been lost.<p>

Beneath the rain, over six hundred wizards stood, shoulders bowed. Some of them could have conjured up a shield to keep the rain off the entire group if they had chosen to, but no one had done it. The rain felt right, somehow. Fitting. Many of them had spent the last year just getting on with their lives, but no one had completely forgotten the Final Battle and the memory now hit them with full force, bowing heads and stooping shoulders. The three hundred odd students of Hogwarts, including the repeat seventh years, stood at the front of the crowd, their hair plastered to their head by the rain, looking up at the memorial. Some were as young as eleven, others were past their nineteenth birthday, and heights varied so much it was almost comical. But most of them were holding hands with their friends, some even hugging and crying, and their expressions were too dark to be laughed at. Behind them, parents, families, friends, previous students, as well as some people who had no one left seemed to form a separate crowd. That was where she was, with George, his hand in hers. George's other hand was balled into a fist, and his lips were moving rapidly, but nothing audible was coming out; it occurred to her that he might be praying.

Her other hand was held tightly by Katie, who had taken a long time to be convinced to come. The uncharacteristic paleness of her face was accentuated by the dripping black hair that clung to it. Her hand shook and her teeth were chattering. A step beside her was Lee, then Oliver, whose face looked drawn and whom they had hardly seen since he had been bitten. Then Alicia, who had left her baby daughter Merry at home _"with someone."_ Alicia was crying silently; it would have been easy to mistake the tears running down her face for raindrops, but the way her face was screwed up and her chest sometimes heaved as she held back a sob told the real story.

It had already been a year. In a year, a quick, hard, fast year, so many things had happened. Katie had woken up, Oliver's life had been ruined, Alicia had had a daughter, Lee had thrown his life away for revenge. What had that got him? she wondered. Rookwood was behind bars now, locked up in Azkaban forever and ever, and for that she was grateful; but by all rights Lee should be in there with him, in the next cell. Just looking at him, you knew he had done the wrong thing and would carry it around for the rest of his life. The first time she had seen him after he caught Rookwood, she had been almost afraid of him. That was when she had decided it was better to finally let the past go. Anything was better than what Lee had done: let the past follow him around, haunt him, and destroy him bit by bit.

She felt oddly detached as she watched everyone, even when George's hand squeezed hers so tightly it hurt, even when a small murmur escaped his lips: "_Fred..._," she heart him say, and tried very hard not to think of Fred. One year had passed, and she couldn't imagine herself spending another year just mourning. She had mourned for a couple of months before it had nearly done her head in, and since then she had just been trying to forget, and trying to pull George out of _his_ grief. Trying and failing on both counts.

"Ange," George said, suddenly interrupting his litany, "Ange, it's so cold here. Can we go inside?"

Angelina nodded wearily. If it had been left up to her, she would have stayed outside forever. The rain beating down on her shoulders felt like punishment, atonement, and forgiveness; it brought her closer to Fred even when she tried not to think about him. But George was right, it was cold outside, and in moments the crowd would scatter anyway to find loved ones' graves and stand _there_ instead of _here_, or maybe to gather in the Great Hall with their Hogwarts-aged children. She followed George inside and froze as the memories hit her full force.

George stopped, too. "Ange?"

She didn't reply, but squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the memories. She had been here exactly one year ago. Inside the castle, she had entered the Great Hall, seen a red-headed man folded up on the floor, crying all the tears of his body. At first, she hadn't known which one it was, but she had still felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Both of them had been her friends, her team-mates on the Quidditch pitch; both of them had been brave and likeable. When she had looked down at Fred's corpse she had felt numb inside, as though it weren't possible. She hadn't believed it, at the time. The first time she really felt his loss was when, later, she saw the plaque on the wall with his name engraved on it, one among many: _1__st__ April 1978 – 2__nd__ May 1998_. Then she realised... really realised... that Fred was gone.

Fred was gone.

He would never hold her in his arms again, never look at her in the way that made her feel special, never make a joke and give that self-satisfied grin when she laughed, never fake being sorry when she was angry at him. She would never even be angry at him again.

_"Go to hell,"_ she had told him once during an argument. _"Go to hell and don't come back!"_

They had made up afterwards. They had talked about it and hugged and kissed and made love. And it had happened weeks and weeks and _weeks_ before the battle. But she couldn't shake the memory from her head.

_"I hate you,"_ she had said the last time they'd had a fight. _"I really do." _

It had been over something stupid. She wasn't even sure what anymore. But the conversation was clear enough – Fred had been grinning that mocking grin, and she had been furious at him, because he never took anything seriously, and she had told him she hated him.

The memories were coming back, not slowly, but as fast-paced and hard as the rain outside. Not the good memories, the smiles, the laughs, the kisses and the good times, but everything cruel, everything angry she had ever said to Fred.

_ You're such an idiot. Why am I even going out with you? I can't believe you said that. How stupid can you be? No, you're _not_ funny. Go to hell. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you._

She wondered whether he had believed her. Whether he had died thinking she hated him.

On-and-off-and-on-and-off, that was what they had had. And the Battle had occurred during one of their _off_ periods, both of them having too much on their minds... too much on their hearts to deal with each other. Why? Why hadn't she spent more time with him – cuddled and kissed him, and told him she loved him and always would? Why had she been so blind? Why hadn't she taken advantage of every second with him – every second he was alive? Why hadn't she always been there for him?

"Ange?" George said again.

She opened her eyes. George was watching her worriedly, his expression lost, his hands clenched into fists by his side.

Why was she so useless that she couldn't help the people she loved?

* * *

><p>"Sorry," Angelina said. "It's just..."<p>

She looked very pale, if it was possible for her to be pale. She reached a hand out to steady herself against the wall and took a deep breath.

"I just..." she began again, then stopped. She offered him a weak smile. "I think I just realised how much I miss him."

He paused. "We should go to the Great Hall," he said, but she shook her head.

"Too many people," she explained when he looked at her quizzically. "Too many kids. I need to breathe..."

She slowly slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor hugging her knees. She looked like a child herself like this, her braided hair falling into her face, her chin resting on her knees.

He sat down beside her and crossed his legs.

"You know..." he said, "I don't _really_ think my grief is more important than yours."

She looked up at him, her expression stricken. "I never said –"

"I know sometimes it seems like that," he cut in, "but really, I don't. It's not that it's more important. It's just that I've been kind of blind these past few months... this past year, really... to what everyone else has been feeling. But I do know you miss him, Ange. Of course you do."

The doors to the castle opened, and a family with very blond hair passed in front of them without giving them so much as a glance. Angelina watched them go by.

"I _don't _miss him as much as you do," she said. "And that's a fact. There's a part of me that will always miss him, but we were never best friends. We were just... I mean, I had a crush on him since Hogwarts and we were dating, but... I didn't know him like you did. I won't miss him like you will."

"But you _do_ miss him," he pressed. "Ange, sometimes I wonder..." he began, then stopped. "I just can't stop thinking," he tried again. "Sometimes... If it had been me..."

"_Don't_," Angelina said, choking up.

"It would have been easier," he said anyway. "For everyone. You wouldn't have hurt as much –"

"Are you _mad_, George?" she cried.

He looked up; she seemed genuinely angry.

"How can you believe that? How can you even _think_ it?"

"You can't deny," he said, "that when you saw – us – in the Great Hall, you hoped... You _wished_..." He met her gaze and held it, and somewhere, somehow found the courage to continue. "You hoped it was me."

She looked away then. "I didn't," she lied feebly, then swore under her breath. "I didn't, George! I didn't mean it – it crossed my mind! I loved him. You know I did. It was stupid, selfish, _horrible_..."

"It was normal." He shrugged, then asked what was really preying on his mind. "How do you think he would have survived – dealt with it? If it had been me."

Angelina's hand snaked out to cover his, warmth radiating from her with surprising sincerity. "If I ever wished," she said quietly, "for you and Fred to exchange places, it would only be to spare you this pain. I could have helped Fred better than... better than..." Her voice caught.

"You _are_ helping me," he said. "I swear."

He didn't cry, but Angelina did. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and off the bridge of her nose before dripping down to the floor. She made no move to brush them away or hide them in any way. She continued to look at George, drinking in his features, and her lips curved into the saddest of smiles.

Outside, the sky cried with her.


	47. What Did They Do to You?

**Chapter 47**

**27th May, 1999**

**What Did They Do to You?**

* * *

><p>When Katie came over, the blame in her eyes almost killed him.<p>

He hadn't seen her in days. In truth, he hadn't expected to ever see her again. Because Katie was Katie and she would never forgive him. He didn't even _want _to be forgiven. He was ashamed of what he had done, but he didn't regret it. And that was precisely what she couldn't forgive him for.

And yet here she was, on his doorstep – George's doorstep –, looking up at him with her wide, honest dark eyes and wet lashes as though she'd been crying; he wondered why. There had been a time when he could have swept her into his arms and asked her what was wrong and make her feel better. At the very least he would have said hello. Now, he only stepped aside silently to let her come in. She looked around at the bare walls, the near-empty room.

"This place looks even worse than it used to," she said.

He laughed. He had stored everything in a smaller room at the back. He planned to repaint the place and rearrange the furniture, and for that he had taken away all the products.

"It's going to get better," he assured her. "I just packed everything up to get some cleaning and organising done. In a few months, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes will be opening again."

"That would be nice," she said. "It was a good idea to put the lights back up. Lee, how is George doing?"

George was doing brilliant in Lee's opinion, but brilliant for him wasn't exactly brilliant by Katie's standards. George was surviving in a better way than he had these past few months. His periods of depression had made themselves scarce. He ate. He talked. He had helped Lee sort through the clutter in the shop. He didn't live, he _survived_.

"He's better," he said finally, smiling softly. "As good at can be expected."

She shot him a disgusted look, and he caught it and understood it. It meant, _how can you smile anymore?_ Since the war, many people begrudged others their happiness. He had been one of them only a few months ago. He had never expected Katie to become one.

"And you? How are _you_ doing, Lee?"

He shrugged. "As good as can be expected," he said again. "Probably better. I wasn't expecting to ever see the light of day again, you know. I thought I'd go to Azkaban for the rest of my life."

He knew it had cost Harry and Kingsley, usually so honest, to pull as many strings as they could and use their reputation as best as they had been able to to save him. He still didn't know exactly _why_ they had done it, but they had.

"You would have deserved it," she said bitterly.

"I would," he agreed. "I mean, I do deserve it. Katie, I don't regret it." He looked straight into her eyes, imprinting his meaning into her. "I don't."

"I know you don't," she said. "It's sick."

Lee nodded. He had expected that.

"Come upstairs," he said, "and you'll see for yourself how George is."

"No, that's fine," she said. "I'll just... stay here for a while. I have to go home soon, anyway."

She looked around the room again, then moved over to a now bare shelf. She traced its dusty edge with a finger.

"I think I remember how it used to be organised," she said softly. "Over there was the Muggle tricks section... And over there, the girls' corner."

"Would you like to come around when we set it back up again?" he offered impulsively.

She looked at him. "No," she said quietly, "I don't think I would."

She blamed him. He disgusted her. She... hated him? No, it wasn't that. Just blame. Quiet, harsh blame in her dark, dark eyes, boring their accusation into him. He had held her in his arms and kissed her and told her he loved her, and now she could hardly bear to stand in the same room as him. Was he really the monster she saw in him? Did he deserve this treatment?

What did it matter, anyway? He had done what he had done.

"Don't," she said sharply, startling him out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"Don't look like that," she said.

"Like what?"

"Like you're – like you don't care anymore."

He smiled, though there was nothing humorous about it. "And if I don't?"

"Then it's even worse than I thought," she said forcefully. "Lee, I don't even recognise you anymore. What did they do to you?"

"'They' killed my best friend."

"So that makes everything all right, then? That makes it all right to torture someone?"

"It wasn't 'someone,' Katie. It was _him_."

"Rookwood. Yes, I know. The one who murdered Fred." She looked down at the shelf again. "Damn you, Lee, for making such a mess of this all. As though it weren't hard enough already."

"_I_ made a mess of it? It was already a mess, Katie, and you know it."

"I know it, and everyone knows it, but everyone else _tried_, Lee," she retorted. "Everyone else _tried_ to deal with it the right way. The only way."

"You mean to forget it." His voice was cold.

"No, I mean to accept it," she snapped. "Even George, in his own way... Gods, Lee, even George would never have done that." Her voice rose. "What did you _do_?"

"Do you want the details?"

He heard her gasp; she grasped the shelf so hard her knuckles went white.

"Damn you, Lee," she said again. "You... _Why_ did you do it?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"You didn't _have_ to." She leaned her head against the shelf. "You could have just caught him and thrown him in Azkaban for the rest of his life... Why did you do it?"

"I don't know, Katie," he said again. "I just... It just came over me when I saw him."

"What was it?" she asked. "What did you feel, then? Did you feel _justified_ in what you were doing? Do you feel _better_ now that you've tortured a man?"

"No," he said. "Katie, _look_ at me."

She turned around, her back to the shelf, and looked into his eyes. Confusion had replaced blame in her eyes, and he felt a stab of pain in his heart as he looked at her.

"It's not like that. I didn't do it... because I thought it was the right thing to do. I didn't think about it beforehand. I just... I cast the spell and what I felt, Katie, was hatred, anger, and pain. Not any different from what I felt before."

"So you wasted your career for nothing."

Lee barked. "My _career_? There was never any _career_. I was never going to be an Auror for long, Katie. I was going to hang up my spurs as soon as Rookwood was caught, by me or by someone else. You _know_ the only reason I joined was to throw him in Azkaban."

"And not to kill him?"

He started. "No," he said after a moment. "Not to kill him. I don't think so."

"Then how can you not regret it? How can you not know it was wrong?"

"I do know it was wrong. I just don't care."

She looked at him, and this time, her gaze _was_ full of loathing. "You're fucked up in the head, Lee."

"I know."

"Ange told me you were a good Auror."

"She did?" He was surprised. "I never liked the job. Not really. But I was good at classes." He shrugged. "Harry could always beat me in a duel, but other than that I was pretty much top of the class."

"How come?" she wanted to know. "You weren't very good at Hogwarts."

"I never worked at Hogwarts," he explained. "I worked a lot for the Aurors. Not because I liked it but because I wanted to be good at it so I could have a chance of cornering Rookwood."

Katie shook her head. "You've wasted a year of your life chasing after a Death Eater who would have ended up being caught anyway. And you threw away your entire life to cast an Unforgivable on him. How does it feel, Lee, to know you managed to lose everything in the five most stupid seconds of your life?"

"It feels," he said, "brilliant."

Her head jerked up and she stared at him, disbelieving.

"Are you even human anymore, Lee?"

"I'm honest," he countered. "I haven't felt this alive in the past year. I think part of it is not having to study so hard anymore, but part of it was catching Rookwood, Katie, and so... that's why I don't regret it. I can feel, deep down, right here –" he put a hand to his chest – "that it was the right thing to do. For me," he added quickly, when Katie's eyebrows shut up. "Not the right thing to do, legally. Not the right thing to do, morally. But for me... I really think it was the only way I could find peace."

"You mean torturing someone?"

"_No_," he said, biting back a sharper retort. "Merlin, Katie. I meant catching him and having those months of chase actually end up _meaning_ something."

"I think I'm going to be sick," she murmured, dropping her gaze.

He strode over to her and took her hands in his. "Katie, look at me."

She lifted her head tentatively, eyes wet, tears threatening to spill over, soft lips parted in pain, confusion, disbelief.

He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.

"Katie," he said again. "I _am_ sorry. I'm not sorry for what I did. But if it's any comfort to you, I'm sorry it hurt you. Hell, I'm sorry for all the times I've ever hurt you."

A small smile played on her lips. "You have no idea of the extent of what you're apologising for."

"I know." He raised her arm and dared to plant a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. "And I'm sorry about that, too."

He half-expected her to pull away, but she didn't. She let him hold her hands, and she leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest, not saying anything. After a few seconds of standing still like this, Lee let go of her hands and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. Her hair still smelt the same. He felt, after a second's hesitation, her own hands hesitantly slip around his waist.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he whispered.

"There are a lot of things we never wanted," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. "I never wanted Fred to die, either. I never wanted to see you become... what you've become."

"I'll be back," he swore. "I don't know what I've become but it's not permanent, Katie. I've already come a long way since last month. I swear... I'll be back."

She pulled away slightly and tipped her head back, raising her mouth up to his. He claimed her lips in a soft, soft kiss, as light as a butterfly's landing, just the brush of his mouth against hers, just enough to send a jolt of electricity running up his spine – and then she disentangled herself from his arms and step back.

"I can't wait for you."

* * *

><p><strong>I had to write this chapter. I couldn't just leave Lee hanging like that after what happened last time... so one last chapter for Lee. Re-reading and proof-reading this, I think I like this kiss much better than any of the Dramione ones. Hm. I wonder what that means.<strong>

**Three more chapters to go. I think I'll post the next one in a day or two; it's a very short one. And then there are the last two chapters, which I like. A lot.  
><strong>

**Oh, and I really don't like the new interface for posting a new chapter. Why complicate things? It was so clear and minimalistic before.  
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	48. Black as Blood

**So... recently a reviewer asked, What's the point of having Dramione in a story that's going to be epilogue-compliant? **

**Good question. To be honest, there wasn't meant to be much of a Dramione plot in this story. It just crept up on me. I thought it fit. Because... the war would have changed both of them, but ultimately, a relationship would be too difficult.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 48<strong>

**25th June, 1999**

**Black as Blood  
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><p>It was a clear summer day of the sort that made you wonder how the weather could be so uplifting when everything else was so gloomy. They were at Malfoy Manor, in the gardens, sitting on the edge of a fountain; Narcissa had invited her. Lucius, she had been informed, was not available. It was certainly better that way. Draco would be coming home from school in a few days.<p>

"So how was school for Draco?" she asked, trying to make small talk.

But it wasn't small talk for Narcissa, who genuinely cared about her son. Her expression darkened.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I have no idea. He hardly writes at all, and he refused to come home over the holidays – even for Christmas. I _know_ he blames us for what happened. And Azkaban was so difficult on him, Andromeda. I don't know what matter of being I'll be seeing at Platform 9 and ¾ when he finally arrives. You have no idea, Andy, what it does to a mother to see her son _tortured_ – because it _is_ torture – by the Dementors until you hardly recognise him anymore. I haven't seen him since August and I don't know how he's been holding up. I don't know if... if..." Her voice broke. "I'm scared, Andy. I don't know what I would do if he'd gone... if he went... if he turned out like Bella."

"He's – like that?" Andromeda said, feeling a flickering fear rise in her.

"_No_," Narcissa said, straightening up, a glint of anger in her eye, "no, of course not. But these past years have been hard on him. He's had to do things that no one should ever do, to see things that no one should ever see. He's still young, Andromeda. He's impressionable. And the Dementors..." She trailed off. "You don't know what it's like," she said again, more forcefully.

"I know," Andromeda said slowly, "what it's like to lose your entire family to Death Eaters."

Narcissa's head shot up. "Oh, Andromeda, I didn't mean it like that. You know I don't think... you know your own... Andy, I _deserved_ what I got. I deserved _worse_ than what I got. I'm not complaining for myself. I'm worried about my son."

"I would like," Andromeda said, "to still have a child to worry about."

She looked down at Teddy, sitting in her lap. He was tugging on her long dark hair, amused; it bemused her because he had the exact same colour hair. Hair that hadn't changed since the day he realised he would never see his mother again. Still he found her own hair amusing, a plaything to pull on when he was bored. He liked Narcissa's even better. That she could understand; sleek, silky blond was more fascinating than brown.

"Mum," he said, catching his gaze on her.

He looked up at her with dark, dark eyes, still Bella's eyes. And he giggled.

"It's not 'Mum,'" she said, sighing. "It's Andy. Hush, darling," she added, when Teddy whimpered something.

Teddy was an otherwise bright child, but getting him to understand that she wasn't his mother was like trying to fall uphill. She couldn't blame him. What kid didn't want a mother? But she had started begrudging him for it, because every time he said it, her heart broke a little more as she remembered Nymphadora's voice, her smile, her face.

Did she worry about Teddy? Of course she did. But it wasn't the same. This was her daughter's son, and she loved him; but he wasn't her child. Every time she looked at him, she was reminded of that. She was reminded of her dead daughter. Her dead son-in-law, too, whom she had never appreciated enough when he was living. He had been right for her daughter, she knew that now. But she had been so harsh with him...

She looked up at Narcissa again; her sister's eyes were still wide with fear.

"Andromeda, I am so sorry for what –"

"I know what it's like to be a mother," Andromeda interrupted her, "My daughter grew up happy, with parents who loved her and didn't try to control her. She grew up strong-willed and free. She married someone she loved with all her heart despite his – what I conceived as – faults. She was _happy_. I had to bury her a year ago – I had to watch as they lowered her body into the ground – I had to choose the inscription on my own daughter's _grave_. Do you understand that, Cissy? Do you understand what it does to a person? No one should have to bury their child. No one should have to go on living longer than their children. Believe me, Narcissa, I know how to be a mother. I also know what it feels like to have your heart ripped to shreds. So I think I _can_ understand what you're feeling right now."

"I'm sorry," Narcissa said quietly. "You know I didn't mean that. It's just – like you said, Andromeda, you know what being a mother is like. I love Draco with all my heart. I just... forget about everything else when I think of him."

"I know," Andromeda said. "I don't blame you. I suppose he is my nephew, after all. In a way."

"In every way. Black blood is strong, Andromeda. We will always be your family."

She laughed harshly. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you. 'I'll always be your family.' Where were you, Narcissa, when your niece was born? Where were you when our family disowned me? Where were you when Bella was trying to kill me? In our case, water is thicker than blood. I met many wonderful people when I left you, Narcissa. I married the man I loved and had a beautiful daughter. I will never regret the life I chose when I left the family, not one second of it. _You_'re the one who made the wrong choice, you and the rest of our family. And your son, too."

"The blood that makes you my sister –"

She slapped Cissy's outstretched hand away. "Haven't you understood yet, Narcissa? Don't you yet know that there is no such thing as pure, expensive,_ clean_ Black blood? We _all_ have the same blood running through our veins." She nodded at Teddy. "This is your niece's son. He's a half-blood, and his blood is as red as mine and as red as your own. Blood is _red_, Narcissa. It isn't _filthy_, it isn't something to be proud of and it certainly never was black. It's _red_."

Teddy whined in her arms, frightened by her tone.

"I believe you," Narcissa said. "I believe you. Stop it, Andromeda. I wasn't trying to accuse anyone. Do you honestly think that whenever I look at Teddy, I think of his half-breed father, his half-blood mother and hate him? I love the boy, Andromeda. You know I do."

"I'm just worried," Andromeda said, looking down at her grandson. "I wasn't able to protect his parents. My daughter. How could they trust me with their son? I worry about him. I don't think I can do the right things for him. I'll never be able to replace his parents. They should have been here for him."

"Just raise him like you told me you raised you daughter. Raise him to be happy."

"I think I do know," Andromeda admitted. "I do know you love Teddy."

"I would have loved your daughter, too, if I had known her."

Andromeda gasped and closed her eyes. The words brutally brought back to her the image of Nymphadora, her eyes, her voice, her clumsiness, her _everything_. Nymphadora, who might not have died if her mother hadn't been a Black, if her aunt hadn't been insane.

Cold fingers covered her hand, and she opened her eyes. Narcissa had reached out to take her hand again, but she snatched it back as though scalded. Hurt flashed in her sister's eyes and she looked away, then gasped.

"Andy, look at Teddy."

"I've just –" She froze and stared at her grandson.

"Mum," Teddy said, tugging at her sleeve. "Mum..."

And she didn't have the courage to tell him, once more, that she wasn't his mother. Because... Because Teddy's hair had been brown, dark brown, almost black. Just as brown as Andromeda's. And it had suddenly become bright blue. As blue as the sky on a clear summer day. As bright as the tears that sparkled in Cissy's eyes. As bright as his future in a world free of conflict.

"He'll be fine, Andy. I promise."

Narcissa reached out to take her hand again, and this time, she let her.

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><p><strong> This is the next-to-last time you're pressing that "next" button...<strong>

** If you're not too eager, you could always pause for a review... or wait until the last chapter and hit me with an onslaught of criticism for all 49 chapters that you've been holding in for months. I suppose I'd appreciate that.**

** I'll post the next two chapters in one go, because they just go well together. And then it'll be over. **

** Thank you, everyone. **


	49. The Future

**Chapter 49**

**The Future**

**1st July, 1998**

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><p>These last few weeks had been wonderful for them both. She and Draco had built memories together that they would never forget. Memories he could maybe call on if he ever needed to summon a Patronus. She knew he would never forget – and maybe she wouldn't, either – what it had felt to win the Quidditch Cup against Gryffindor. Ginny had been devastated, and maybe it was wrong not to be rooting for your own house and friend, but she had worn the silver and green hairpins again and her eyes had been glued to Draco throughout the entire match. He knew it, too. He had been looking at her when the Snitch flew up right in front of her. She hadn't even noticed it at first, but he had, and dived so suddenly that in a second everyone else had, too. After that, the Gryffindor common room held a rather morose atmosphere and she had been more than happy to sneak out quietly to the Room of Requirement, where she hoped to find Draco. He was, in fact, there, and they had celebrated his victory together.<p>

_"Shouldn't you be with your house?"_ she had asked, secretly pleased.

_"I've been,"_ he had said quietly. _"But you're the one I wanted to celebrate with."_

She didn't think she had ever, in all her life, cared so much about a Quidditch match. Or that she would ever again. It hadn't really been about the Quidditch, though.

_Memories.._.

He was riding with the Slytherins now, and she had found a carriage by herself. She wanted to be alone for these last few hours on the train before the real end of her Hogwarts days. She had obtained a position at the Ministry and Os on all her NEWTs. Draco had passed all his subjects with at least an Acceptable, and Os in Potions, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts. She couldn't fathom how, after the huge fine his family had had to pay, they still had enough money to provide for their son without his looking for a job, but she had decided it wasn't any of her business. There would always be things left unsaid between them, because that was the only way they could work. It was also the reason they could never work.

So she was alone in the train compartment now, looking out the window, watching the landscape fly past. That was all she had done for the hours of train ride, just look out the window. She had had to blink back tears when they left the Hogsmeade station as the thought of never making this trip again. Even now, her throat felt slightly choked. She didn't know if it was because the year was over, and all the pressure and the feeling of loss were coming back, and she had chosen to be alone which only made it easier to dwell on dark thoughts; or because she would never see Hogwarts again. Or Draco.

She would never speak to him again.

The trees outside her window finally started slowing down, and she looked away. When the train stilled to a complete stop, she stood up and levitated her trunk down. And when she turned around to face the compartment door, she stopped in her tracks. Draco was there, changed out of his school robes and into almost-identical black ones, except these had silver lining around the cuffs. He was leaning against the door, which was closed behind him (why hadn't she heard him come in?), and he was watching her with a warmth in his eyes she had never seen before.

"What are you doing here?"

"I've come to say good-bye," he said, and stepped closer. He was so close she could not only hear but feel him breathing, feel the ghostly warmth of his breath over her face. "And thank you. I won't forget this."

His voice was heated, and she knew he was talking about _this_, this year as well as _this_, this moment.

"You won't even _try_ to let us last, will you?" she murmured.

"I can't," he said softly. "You know _we_ can't."

"But _why_?" She wished she didn't sound so desperate; her voice was choked and managed to break on those two words.

"I would if I could," he said. "You know I would. Look..."

"You're _scared_."

"Yes, I'm scared. I'm not like you. I'm not a Gryffindor. I can't just... I can't go ahead with this. _One_ of us has to be rational, and for once it's going to be me. I won't rush into this blindly. I've thought it through, and so have you, I know you have, and we both agree on this."

"Even if I don't want to?"

"Especially if you don't want to."

"I wish..." she began, and stopped.

"What do you wish, Hermione?" he asked.

"I wish I knew," she said, "what would have happened if we_ had_ tried."

He was silent for a long, long time. Then: "Have you heard of 'wishing upon a star'?"

"Yes," she said, startled. "What –"

"Next time you look up at the sky," he interrupted her, "and it's a starry night, wish as hard as you can on a star, any star. I want you to look at it and remember – and remember the time we looked at the stars together, and I showed you _my_ constellation. And you'll know, then, that I'm thinking of you. All right?" He didn't let her answer. "As for your wish – you _do_ know. You know what would have happened. But don't think about it. Forget it. Forget all that – just think about you, and me, right now. Let the rest go like you taught me to let my past go."

And then suddenly his lips were on hers, softly, not taking but giving, returning all the gentleness she had given him this past year. He tasted like salt and the sea, but maybe it was only her own tears running down her face. She could feel the desperation behind the kiss as well as the gratefulness, and she opened up her mouth to him, deepening the kiss, savouring it, knowing it would be their last.

He pulled away, and she looked at him, feeling sort of dazed.

He planted one more infinitely gentle kiss on her forehead and smiled. "Good-bye, Granger."

"Good-bye, Draco," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

And then he was gone, and this time it was really over.

Just like that.

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><p>When she stepped off the train, alone, they were all there. The Weasleys. Even Bill and Fleur, and Percy and Audrey. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luna run forward, and George grab her around the waist and hug her. They stood like that, his chin resting on the top of her head, her hand on his chest, but Hermione was too busy staring at someone else to be surprised.<p>

_Ron_ was there, standing beside Harry, looking directly at her. She felt her heart race as he slowly walked over to her; Ginny suddenly left her side.

"Hey," he said with a grin that sent her heart leaping in her throat. "How was it? We missed you."

He hadn't written _once_. She hadn't thought about him – really thought about him – for _weeks_. But there, and then, suddenly, everything she had once felt for him came rushing back. He was smiling, his eyes were sparkling, and his tone was playful. He had – somehow – healed. And that realisation was enough to make her heart leap in her throat with joy. Beside him, Harry was looking more relaxed than she had seen him in months. She felt a surge of affection for them both and had to blink hard to keep the tears from falling. Her best friends had come back to her at last.

"It was fine," she said. "Better than fine."

"You always did love school."

He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her close to him. She felt no spark, no warmth, but the contact was oddly comforting.

"Did everyone come just for us?" she asked, looking around.

"Never mind them," he whispered, his mouth suddenly inches from her ear. "_I_ came just for you."

"Ginny's your _sister_."

"And you're my girlfriend," he said, taking her hand in his free one and leaning his forehead against hers. "Or you will be, one day, when you're ready. That is – if you still want to be." In an even lower voice, he added, "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," she said, and found that she sincerely believed it. When had that happened? "I couldn't have done it back then, either."

_Back then_... was it really only a year ago? It seemed so far away, now.

"So..." He smiled at her. "Is it too late... or d'you think we can give it a try? I'm ready now."

"So am I."

That was when he kissed her, his lips descending on her forehead softly, in the most gentle kiss she had ever received. It wasn't fire, it wasn't heat. It was a gift, an apology, a promise of more to come. It was nothing like the more passionate kiss they had shared during the Final Battle. It was a fresh start.

George wolf-whistled, and she dimly heard calls of "Finally!" and "Took you long enough, mate!" She recognised Harry's laughter, and Ginny was saying something, too. Even when she pulled away to shake her head at them, she couldn't erase the smile off her face.

It had been a long year. Sometimes fun, sometimes difficult, and definitely full of surprises. But that year was over now. It was time to look forward to the future.

She looked at her hand in Ron's and said, more to the world than to herself, "Let's do this."

Ron smiled down at her and echoed her words, "Yeah, let's do this."

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><p>That night, the stars shone bright against the black sky. As bright as their future.<p> 


	50. It's a Start

**No, of course I haven't forgotten about Harry... This is the last chapter. We've gone full circle here, starting and ending with his POV. It only seemed right. I think I hit the pained-but-hopeful note all right here. **

**The day I began writing this chapter, this song came on at the ending of the Cold Case episode I was watching. I think it influenced a lot of it. It's a lovely song. Gordon Lightfoot – If You Could Read My Mind.**

_I don't know where we went wrong,_

_But the feelin's gone_

_And I just can't get it back..._

**I'm sure you know whom this one is about. I seriously think it's one of the best chapters, so I'm glad it ends here.**

**To the readers who made it through to the end: thank you. I can't thank a single reader or reviewer enough.**

****I feel kind of sad that this fic is over, but it's more than counterbalanced – let's say overridden – by just a little pride. 50 chapters, over 200 reviews, and 140k words (though I should subtract the Author's Notes from that to get a more accurate count).****

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><p><strong><strong>EDIT (Nov 2012): This fic is still being read, which I find absolutely magical. Thank you for all the reviews. <strong>I read your comments, each and every single one, and they mean a lot to me.**

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><p><strong>It's a Start<strong>

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><p>She was sitting cross-legged in the grass outside the Burrow, her head tilted back to catch the last rays of afternoon sunlight against her face before it became dark. Her long hair swished like a red curtain behind her as the wind shook it out. It was tangled, frazzled, and messy. The corners of her mouth were turned down into a scowl and her eyes were screwed shut against the harshness of the sun. Ginny looked closed off and utterly unapproachable, and he felt his heart squeeze when he thought of the last time he had seen her smile. Her real smile, the wide one that made her eyes sparkle, spoke mountains of her feelings when her tongue couldn't find the words, and made him want to wax poetry – though Merlin knew she would hate it if he actually went through with it.<p>

_His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad..._ He staggered back as though struck, and it was almost as though he had been. He still remembered the dwarf's gravelly voice as he recited the poem that he _knew_ Ginny had written for him. He remembered the embarrassment he had felt and how Ginny had turned bright red. The memory elicited another painful twinge in his chest as he recalled the rest of his second year, when she had sent him that poem on Valentine's Day and he had saved her from a basilisk. How far they had come since then... Friendship, and then... more. Only for it all to end like this: they were hardly able to look at each other anymore, let alone carry a conversation. He didn't know where it had all gone wrong.

Was it when Fred had died? Or did it go back to when he had left her to go back to Hogwarts while he went on the run? Maybe when he had ended things? Or was it really like she said and had _he_ been the one changed by the war? He had thought, in the hours after the battle, that they would be fine. But something had gone terribly wrong, and he still wasn't sure what. All he was sure of was that when he looked at Ginny, like he was doing right now, he felt the same thing he had felt when he had watched her with Dean, what seemed like ages ago: a jumbled mess of loss, futility, want and confusion. He held on to that feeling like a desperate hope, like a sign that things could go back what they had been... go back to normal.

As he watched, Ginny blew out a weary sigh and opened her eyes.

"I know you're there, Harry."

His heart leapt in his throat – more hope. He was surprised, but not unduly so, that she had felt his presence. He suspected she knew he watched her often. The shocking part was that she had decided to call him on it. To actually say something to him.

He moved out from behind the tree that had been barely concealing him, unsure of what to expect, and met Ginny's eyes.

She smiled mirthlessly, not her real smile. "You know, some people would find that creepy."

"Others might find it romantic," he said, then bit his lip.

But Ginny didn't seem to mind the remark. In fact, her smile grew slightly warmer.

"I'll let you guess which group I fit into."

"Hopefully not the first," Harry said carefully. "But probably not the second."

Her brown eyes were sad despite the smile. "Probably not," she agreed. "I suppose it depends on your intent."

His heart skipped a beat. Not because he interpreted her words as flirting, but because they hadn't exchanged so many words at once since Christmas (and that hadn't been a very pleasant experience), and her last sentence obviously expected an answer. It was an invitation to continue, and Harry hardly needed any more encouragement.

"I wanted to see you."

"You see me practically every day. Mum likes to have you over for dinner."

"Yes, but... not like that. Not so closed off and wary."

As jumpy as a rabbit in his presence, ever worse than she had been when she was still young and in complete admiration of him.

"I wanted to see _you_. Just you. Not... not whatever it is has happened between us."

She nodded, like it made sense. "And it's me you see when I'm alone?"

"Yes."

"Then what do I have to do to see _you_?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

His entire body was tingling. Questions. Answers. A conversation. He found himself stepping forward closer to her. She followed him with her eyes but didn't say anything.

"This _is_ me," he said. He spread his arms out. "It's not the me you used to know. I realise that. I know you're right and I've changed. But... it's still _me_, Ginny."

Her eyes were shining, but he couldn't tell if it was from tears, or the reflection of the sunlight, or something else entirely.

"I know," she said. "I know that. You're you, and I'm still me, but... we just don't click anymore."

That hurt. It hurt more than Harry could ever have imagined, but he didn't let it show. She was _talking_ to him, trying to make progress, and he wasn't going to let the opportunity slip past him without doing anything. He pressed forward.

"I think... I think we haven't changed, exactly. We're still the same people, but there are... parts missing. So our edges don't fit together like they used to. We're... jagged."

"Jagged," Ginny repeated. The tears spilt over suddenly; he hated seeing her cry. "Luna said something to that effect the other day. The parts missing... they're the things we've lost, aren't they? We'll never go back to the way we used to." Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Fred will never come back."

"No," he said. "He won't. None of them will."

"So there will always be something missing?"

He wanted, so desperately, to tell her _no, of course not_.

"Yes. I think so. But... you learn to live with it, you know? When Sirius died... I know it's not the same," he said quickly. "I don't mean –"

She gave an awful, strangled half-laugh, half-hiccup. "Don't be daft. Sirius was the only family you had."

He was startled. "Yeah... Yeah, I suppose he was."

"How did... how did you get over it?" she said softly. "How were you ever happy again?"

He looked at her, really looked at her. "You helped," he said truthfully. "You helped a lot. You, and Ron, and Hermione."

"I can't help anymore," she said. "I'm useless to you now. I can't... I just can't."

He didn't know where he found the courage – Gryffindor courage – , but he did. He closed the few feet that still separated them, sat down right across from her, and took her hands in his, looking deep into her eyes, which were red from crying.

"You're not useless," he said. "Especially not to me."

"Then what am I to you?"

He stopped breathing for a split second. The words hung in the air between them, heavy, desperate, confused. _What am I to you?_ The question rang again and again in Harry's head. _What am I to you?_

"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't know anything much these days."

Ginny gave a short, tight nod and didn't withdraw her hands. She sat in silence for a moment, furiously blinking her tears away, and then her gaze strayed over his shoulder to some point in the distance. He turned his head to see what she was looking at. The sun was setting and had begun to streak the sky with pink and orange.

"I like sunsets," Ginny murmured. "Luna and I watched them all the time at Hogwarts, that year."

He didn't need to ask what year she meant.

"It was like... a constant," Ginny went on, taking her hands back and hugging herself as a stronger gust of wind ripped through the air.

He tried not to let the loss of her touch bother him.

"A stupid, _pretty_ constant in a world where everything was messed up and unpredictable. I think it helped. They still help, really."

"What happened?" he asked. "That year. You never told me... we never really talked about it."

"My year, or yours?"

"Yours." He smiled ruefully. "I think you know about mine by now. Ron and Hermione must have told you most of it."

"Some of it," she corrected him. "They wouldn't tell me everything. Like when we thought you were dead..."

"I'm sorry."

"Can you imagine how I felt?" she said in a strangled voice. Then: "I'm sorry. I shouldn't –"

"No, no," he said quickly. "It's okay. I'll tell you... someday."

He wanted to say something else but the words stuck in his throat. _You can ask me those questions, Ginny. You can ask me anything as long as you please just talk to me._ He wanted her to know that.

"Turn around," Ginny said, averting her eyes from the intensity of his gaze.

He did, and scooted backward and to the side so that he was sitting next to her, watching as the sun set behind the shadowy outline of the Burrow.

"I used to think," Ginny said very quietly, looking straight ahead, "that the world had changed. That you had changed, that Hogwarts had changed, that everything around me had changed. But now I think... I think _I_'m the one who's different. Maybe I'm just seeing things through a new pair of eyes, and those things are so distorted compared to what I used to see that I think they've changed. So I like watching the sunset... because it's still the same.

"Do you think it'll ever get any easier, Harry?"

"No," he said. "It won't."

She nodded. The sun sat low in the orange, pink and purple sky, on the brink of disappearing.

"Last year was different," she said finally. "It was awful at Hogwarts. I think you heard the most important stuff from Neville."

She pulled the sleeve of her flowing white shirt up, revealing a series of five or so small criss-crossed scars along the inside of her forearm. Harry hadn't seen them before; she tended to wear long sleeves now. Now he knew why.

"Got some here, too," she said, touching her cheek with one hand. "Like Neville. But those were things you could heal. They saved the really awful spells for places we could hide, like our arms. I got this one –" she pointed at a nasty-looking jagged scar on her arm – "after we painted the first 'Still Recruiting' right outside the Great Hall. But I wasn't caught that often, you know. Sometimes Snape would take over our punishment, and then we really got nothing at all. I didn't understand back then, but now I do, I think. Hermione told me about him."

He nodded.

"The worst punishments weren't even the Carrows'. They were the ditzes."

"The what?"

"The ditzes. Stands for 'Death Eater in training.' DITs, or ditzes. Not _really_ Death Eaters," Ginny said. "But that's what we called them. Slytherin pure-bloods the Carrows had complete control over."

"You mean..." A wave of repulsion hit Harry. "You mean _students_ hurt you?"

"Of course. Didn't Neville tell you? It was part of the Dark Arts class. But it didn't hurt that much," Ginny said, absent-mindedly scratching one of the scars. "It was just the _idea_ of it... it was horrible. The Carrows knew that."

"Did they go back?" Harry asked. "Did any of them go back to Hogwarts this year?"

Ginny nodded. "Well, yeah. A couple. There were hardly any Slytherins this year, but –"

"How come this didn't come up in any of the trials?" Harry wanted to know.

"Because no one would have testified. We worked it out between us. Neville and I... the entire DA agreed on that. The others must have been too scared, or maybe they agreed with us, too."

"Why?"

Ginny shot him a disgusted look. "Didn't you do anything during that year that you'd rather forget? Anything you're ashamed of?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"It was _war_, Harry."

The sky darkened as the sun finally disappeared below the horizon. The shine left Ginny's eyes and hair, but her pale skin seemed to glow in the dusk.

"Those people... they could just as easily have been us, you know? They were our age. They were terrified of the Carrows. We all were. They didn't deserve to go to Azkaban for that."

"But –"

"One of them," Ginny said, "even walked me all the way back to Gryffindor Tower afterwards. I could have gone by myself, but he wanted to make sure I was going to be okay and that there would be somebody there to look after me. He never actually apologised, but I could tell he _was_ sorry. Most of them didn't want to do it any more than we wanted them to do it, Harry. They didn't have a choice. Neville took care of me after I reached Gryffindor Tower and he... he _thanked_ the guy. We all felt like that, really. It was Us, the students, against Them, the Carrows. Maybe the Slytherins weren't as open as we were about it. They thought Voldemort was going to win. But they didn't really _want_ it to happen."

"Still," Harry said. "Like you said, you were scared, too, and you didn't –"

"I'm a blood traitor, Harry," she cut in. "The Carrows already knew who my family was, and it didn't take long for them to realise I had been close to you. I couldn't have lain low if I'd tried. Neville was the same, because of what Bellatrix did to his parents. _That_'s why we decided to restart the DA." She blinked, twice. "We were amazed at how many people had kept their coins. You meant a lot to them, Harry."

"I'm not –"

"The DA was our only option for survival," Ginny said. "But the Slytherins... they had to find another way, and if that's what it took for them to save their own lives, then who am I to say anything about it?"

"You never hurt anyone, though. What they did was just _wrong_."

"They hurt us," Ginny agreed. "But we hurt people, too. Everything we did – the pranks, the diversions, everything – had repercussions. We tried not to let the Carrows catch us, and if we succeeded, then they pinned it on someone else, and that's who was punished. Every time we did something that royally pissed the Carrows off, it ended badly for one of the students. Sometimes it was a Slytherin, for being too lenient and letting us get away with it. I think Neville started intentionally letting himself get caught after a while just so no one else would have to take the rap for him. You saw his face before the Battle. But I didn't do the same. I ran. Every single time." She turned to face Harry. "Don't you see? We hurt them, too. It would be stupid... It would be _wrong_ to hold a grudge. I don't blame any of them. They pitied us, but we pitied them more. And now we've won, I still pity them, because they have to deal with what they did. So no, we didn't testify, and we won't. As for the few that came back to Hogwarts... I talked to one of them. He was worse than messed up... it was awful."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I was sorry."

"How did he take that?"

Ginny smiled, still not her real smile, but as close to it as he had seen in a long time. "He told me I was an idiot."

"How kind of him."

"And then he said thank you. I think he was surprised, is all. But he was really polite about it and everything, after that. We talked for about five minutes. I don't remember what about, exactly – just stuff. It made me realise that these people, you know, they're normal. Like you, like me. Just... normal people with families and problems and things they like and don't like. I think Hermione was right and that all this rivalry between the houses doesn't make any sense. Maybe if we had been in the same house, this guy and I would have been friends, but now we'll never know because of something a talking hat decided when we were eleven. Even the Quidditch – it's overrated and fuels the spite and rivalry."

"Quidditch is overrated? Okay. I was wrong. You _have_ changed."

"I captained this year," she said, shaking her head. "It was wonderful. I still _love_ playing. I hope to get Captain again next year. But some people take it too far." She smiled vaguely. "We lost the cup to Slytherin."

"Don't you dare tell Ron. Your family will disown you."

"I was disappointed," she admitted. "But Malfoy looked so happy –"

"Malfoy?" Harry repeated.

"He was the Slytherin captain this year. And he..." She stopped suddenly.

"And?"

"And nothing," she said. "My point is, they're just as human as we are."

"Even Malfoy?"

"You're not seriously asking that question. You saw the state he was in at the trial. Hermione told me about it. Are you still obsessed with him?"

Harry considered it. "Maybe. Or maybe I want to believe that I am, so I can pretend the world hasn't changed that much."

"He looked like he was all right," Ginny said. "I mostly saw him when he was playing, and he looked... all right. I think he'll be fine."

"He had better be," Harry said. "I didn't save his arse from Azkaban for nothing."

She laughed.

"We should do this more often."

"What, watch the sun set?"

"That, too. I meant talk, though."

He smiled back. "Yeah... yeah, we should. Like we used to."

"Those were good times," she said, and for the first time, he thought he caught a glimpse of the real smile reaching her eyes. "Where did we go wrong, Harry?"

"I don't know," he said. He paused, then pushed forward: "What if... I mean, do you think if we tried, we could go back to that?"

The smile faded, and he immediately back-pedalled.

"I didn't mean _that_. Not... not that," he said, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. "You've made yourself clear, don't worry. I was talking about... I know you don't think it will work out, but could we just try... try and be friends? Because – "

"Harry," she said, and in those two syllables, his _name_, there was exasperation, amusement, and a _fondness_ that wrapped itself around his heart warmly. "It's all right. I understand. Yes."

"So... are we friends?"

Ginny reached out and covered his hand with hers. The feel of her skin against his once more made Harry shiver.

"We're friends," she confirmed with a true, wide, poetry-waxing-worthy smile. Then she added, her meaning clear, "For now."

All was not well, but it was a start.


End file.
